


Chaleur

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Disabled Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yusuf owns an underground sex den where Eames works and Arthur is a client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Yusuf is a bastard, but he’s also something of a marketing genius. 

The son of immigrants from India, he set down roots first in Mombasa, which is where Eames met him, and then relocated to London where he formulated a million dollar idea. Eames, who was chronically wasted and a bit of a louse at the time, followed his friend because Yusuf is a clever beta, and also because he promised Eames vast riches and unlimited access to eager, young omegas.

Which was the half truth, and Yusuf, who  _is_ a bastard, mind you, always deals in partial truths.

The beta uses every cent in his savings account to buy a giant warehouse on the outskirts of London, and pays to convert it into partitioned rooms—row after row of dozens of rooms that are eventually tackily draped in silks and velvets in the guise of opulence and luxury.

He calls the place  _Chaleur_ , the French word for “heat,” which Eames thinks is a little too on-the-nose, but he doesn’t have a say in these matters. If he was a smarter man, he would have insisted on owning a share in the business, but as such, he is not business savvy, and he doesn’t particularly like the responsibility and stress that comes along with partnerships of that nature.

Yusuf is a gregarious, brilliant man, and he attracts people like a planet’s gravitational force. All the alphas that flock to  _Chaleur_ for job opportunities are little moons, circling Planet Yusuf. It’s understandable. A young alpha can make hundreds of dollars a week working the rooms of Yusuf’s den. Omegas pay for the opportunity to be rutted when they’re in heat, and don’t have mates waiting at home for them.

It’s a thriving, albeit illegal operation. However, Yusuf pays off the right politicians and police officers to make the place quasi-legal, meaning no one is going to raid the den anytime soon. 

Eames is one of the most sought after alphas at  _Chaleur_ , and he likes to think it’s because he considers what he does to be an art form. Any lug with alpha genomes and a functioning cock can rut, but not everyone can do what Eames does. He’s a counselor, therapist, doctor, healer, lover, confidant, and exorcist rolled into one. The people who come to Eames are the omegas who haven’t been able to find mates yet, and sometimes that’s because they’re too young to be mated, or simply haven’t had luck in love yet, but others are handicapped, or disfigured. Some have crippling anxiety, depression, or mental illness. 

Some omegas just have demons, and Eames can cast them out for an hour, or two, and make them feel at peace. Just for a little bit.

Eames likes his job because he’s always had a weak spot for underdogs, and also because he makes insanely good money working for Yusuf. Since he considers himself a global citizen, and a bit of a prospective entrepreneur inclined to wanderlust, his job at  _Chaleur,_ in the meantime,keeps money in his pocket, food in his belly, and a roof over his head in a more than respectable apartment complex located in a swankier part of town.

In the staff changing room, Eames slips into a cotton tunic and pants, the standard uniform. Yusuf prefers the alphas to look like servants, part of a bygone era the man hopes to romanticise through the rest of  _Chaleur_ 's aesthetics because he's convinced it will make the whole operation less intimidating for potential customers. And though Eames has pointed out the “good ol' days” Yusuf pines for so fondly included things like slavery and genocide, he's right in one respect: alphas seem less threatening when they shuffle around, heads bowed respectfully, to omegas they could tear in half like kleenex.

The idea is to give omegas a sense of  _control_ over what’s happening to them. Omega heats are terrifying affairs—not as earthshaking as alpha heats—but arguably more psychologically straining. An omega in heat is blind and helpless, totally vulnerable to the whims of whatever alpha stumbles upon them in that state. 

As such, they deal not only in flesh and sweat, but also  _trust_. It’s absolutely essential the clients trust Yusuf’s alphas not to attack or kill them.

And, Eames proudly notes to new clients,  _Chaleur_ has a zero fatality rate—a boast not all sex dens can claim.

On the way out of the dressing room, Eames consults the staff schedule board. He has three appointments today, the first located in column C, room nine. Head bowed respectfully, Eames slowly walks along the outer hallway perimeter. When he smells an omega approaching, Eames stops walking and keeps his chin tucked to his chest—careful not to make eye contact, until the client passes him, and is gone.

It’s important not to make sudden movements around omegas who are in heat, or about to go into heat. They’re skittish and terrified, and they perceive every alpha as a potential threat or suitor, and it’s strictly against house rules to fraternise with another alpha worker’s client. 

Eames walks up to column C, and then hooks a right. He counts in his head as he passes the door: one, two, three…until he arrives at door nine. There’s a plastic case on the outside of the door holding a file with a square purple sticker in the corner. Purple means Eames’ client is an omega who isn’t in full heat yet, meaning the client is able to communicate, and may need a bit more attention before the full heat arrives.

He flips open the file and smiles softly when he sees the omega is one of his regulars: Josh, an omega born with moderate Cerebral palsy. 

This is good. Josh is a sweet lad, and he always tips Eames a bit more at the end of their sessions. Eames tucks away the file in the plastic slot and knocks gently on the door. When he hears the muffled “come in,” Eames opens the door and slips inside.

"Hello, my love," he greets brightly, smiling when he shuts the door behind him.

Josh smiles back at him from his place on the edge of the bed. “Hey,” he says, pausing in the midst of fiddling with his walking braces. Eames crosses the room and helps him, detaching the clips from Josh’s arms, and leaning the braces against the wall.

"How are you?" Eames asks lightly, sitting on a chair across from the bed. 

He doesn’t want to sit on the bed—at least not yet. Sometimes, omegas get a bit paranoid close to their heats, and even though he’s known Josh for about a year, he doesn’t want to proceed too quickly with things.

"Well, as you’d imagine, fucking horny," Josh says, speaking in his exaggerated, slightly garbled way. He smiles, and laughs loudly.

Eames grins. He likes Josh because he never has to worry about pretense. “But not a full-blown heat yet?” he asks, crossing his legs casually.

Josh shakes his head. “Nah, not yet. Want to beat it to the punch.” Josh flexes his arm and extends it, working out the kinks in his muscles.

"Want me to…? Eames offers, gesturing vaguely.

Josh nods and Eames moves to sit beside him on the bed, cradling the young man’s left arm, and pressing his thumbs into the tense muscles there. Josh sighs happily, hunching over a bit as Eames works. 

Omegas don’t visit exclusively to take care of their heats. Sometimes, a client books a room and an alpha for this purpose—companionship, a friendly set of ears, some happy banter to pass the time. Eames tries not to get sucked into those kinds of arrangements. They can become co-dependent and messy very quickly, but he makes an exception for Josh sometimes because the young man was his first client, and Eames knows he doesn’t harbor romantic interests.

"How’s Yusuf?" Josh asks, offering Eames his right arm.

Eames snorts through his nose and shakes his head as he massages Josh’s forearm. “Wants to buy a bloody racehorse.”

Josh bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Are you serious? That will end well,” he says sarcastically, shooting a cheeky grin his way.

Eames looks at him and smiles, but while he’s at it, notes Josh’s dilated pupils and the flush of his cheeks. When Eames presses his fingertips to the young man’s wrist, he feels his pulse racing. Josh is close—maybe two minutes—to beginning his heat. 

"You don’t have to do that," Josh teases when he looks down and sees Eames feeling his pulse.

"Do what?" Eames asks mildly, offering a close-lipped smile.

Josh turns his palm upward and squeezes Eames’ fingers. “ _Handle_ me,” he replies softly. 

Eames holds the young man’s hand gently, and watches Josh’s eyes grow glassy as his vision fades—his lips falling open when he reverts to using his sensitive Jacobson’s organ located at the top of his mouth to “see” Eames by scent. “I do,” Eames says, running his fingers comfortingly along Josh’s wrist. “It’s my job.”

***

Depending on the severity of heat, an omega could stay at  _Chaleur_ anywhere between a few hours, and a few days. Of course, it’s up to the discretion of the omega to dictate if he or she prefers to see one alpha multiple times throughout the session, which could result in waiting periods between ruts (they’re notbloody _machines_ , after all,) or request multiple partners so as to accelerate the process and condense the heat into one day, sometimes even a few hours.

No two clients are the same, and it’s difficult to predict how long the process will take, so Yusuf always says to  _make themselves flexible_ when it comes to these things. If a client needs them on call for a few days, Yusuf compensates them generously, but they’re expected to keep the client hydrated and sanitary throughout the session. The alpha sleeps with the client,  _lives_  with the client, until the heat passes.

It’s exhausting work sometimes, but they get every other week off, and for virile young alphas, sex marathons are built into their DNA.

Josh’s heat isn’t serious, so Eames is able to quietly leave his room after a few hours. As he shuts the door, Eames glances over his shoulder and sees Josh breathing steadily beneath the covers. He’s placed his braces against the nightstand so they’re within arm’s reach when Josh wakes.

Eames pulls out Josh’s file and detaches the ball point pen from a velcro patch located on the interior of the cover page. He writes “10:37” in large numbers on the back of the file, and then slips it back in the plastic case, face down. This way, the cleaners will know when Josh’s session officially ended, and wake him in an hour when his time is up. Of course, Josh will be permitted to stay longer if he desires, but he’ll have to pay extra.

His next appointment is at 11:30, which gives him time to go to the dressing rooms, disrobe, shower, and fetch a new tunic. Eames eats a small meal in the break room, checks his hair in the mirror by the door on the way out, and makes his way to column N, room 12. The file on the door has a red square with a blue star in the center—the red indicates the omega is in full-blown heat, and the blue star indicates the client is a virgin.

Eames slowly draws out the file and flips it open to read the name at the top of the page:  _Arthur_. Age 17. Student.

That’s all there is, in addition to the noted details that he’s an omega, in heat, and he’s a virgin.

Eames slips the file back into the slot, braces himself, and opens the door. The omega’s scent slams into him like a Mack truck. An alpha can learn an omega’s entire history in their scent, including if they’re virgins. Untouched omegas have a very distinct, sweet scent that’s almost floral in nature. Eames takes a second, leaning against the door, to breathe in the client’s pheromones and calm himself.

It’s very easy for an alpha to become totally derailed by an omega’s scent, but he _needs to focus_. This is his job, after all. There will be a different time, and a different place for his own heat when he can lose himself in mindless, blissful debauchery, but now is not that time. Yusuf keeps detailed calendars of the alphas’ heats so they’re never working when they’re in rut. 

"Hello, Arthur," he says, even though the omega is already naked and writhing on the bed. He just needs to speak aloud to anchor himself to the earth again. 

Eames notes the client apparently tore off his clothes in a haze, and the remnants of his shirt, pants, and underwear lay scattered around the room. No matter. Yusuf keeps the back room stocked with scrubs for this very reason. 

He slowly approaches the bed, and watches as the omega rolls onto his back and opens his mouth to breathe in the alpha’s scent. Arthur’s long neck arches back and he moans softly when Eames’ pheromones hit the roof of his mouth. Eames looks at the young man’s face, and murmurs: “Aren’t you pretty?”

He furrows his brow and takes in the sight of the young man, looking for any visible scars or burns that would make him undesirable to alphas. He can’t see marks, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Arthur’s file didn’t denote any mental illness, but the young man could be undiagnosed. Omegas don’t come to the dens unless they’ve been rejected by alphas for normal mating, or perhaps Arthur can’t function in his student life while in heat, and he’s paying to make the distraction pass quickly.

Eames touches the young man’s brow, pushing the damp fringe off his forehead. Arthur’s skin is very warm, and when his lashes flutter, Eames notes his eyes are rolled back in the sockets. “There’s a love,” he soothes, shushing the omega when he becomes agitated and whines. “I’ll take care of you.”

He walks over to the wall and pushes a button the intercom. Then he waits until Yusuf’s voice filters through the speaker. “Yeah?”

"Hey, mate. What were you thinking penciling me in for a noon appointment when I’m with a star here?"

 _Star_ is how they refer to virgins omegas.

"Don’t think you’ll be able to make it?" Yusuf asks.

Eames rolls his eyes. “No bloody way, mate. Are you daft?”

"All right, all right. Easy. I’ll give Steve your noon."

Eames pulls a face at the mention of the tall, blond Swede. Steve isn’t fit to lick his boots, but there’s no reason to point that out. “Cheers,” he says simply, and turns his attention back to Arthur.

The omega has turned onto his stomach and propped his knees under his chest so he can stick his ass into the air. Eames can see he’s wet between the cheeks, and the sac hanging between his legs is slightly swollen. Arthur moans through clenched teeth and claws at the sheets, pulling them off the corners of the mattress.

Eames quickly sheds his tunic and pants, and climbs into bed behind Arthur. “Easy, pet,” he whispers, resting a steady, strong hand against the base of the omega’s spine. Instantly, the young man whines, and arches his back. Even though he’s a jaded bastard, Eames has to admit to himself that Arthur is lovely. His skin is smooth and pale, and his hair hangs in dark waves around his face. 

He reaches down to press his thumb against Arthur’s entrance, and the omega bucks wildly. Eames grabs his shoulder and keeps him pinned against the bed. “Shhh..” he hushes soothingly, like he’s calming a spooked horse. “Let me,” he whispers, pushing his thumb inside. Arthur is like a vise: so tight, and also hot and drenched. When Eames tugs at the hole a bit, some of the moisture pours out in rivulets and wets the omega’s thighs.

Arthur whimpers again and spreads his legs, exposing his pink hole to Eames. His cock gives an interested twitch at the sight, and Eames wets his lips with the tip of his tongue when he pushes another finger into Arthur’s depths. Eames has had a lot of sex, but he’s not immune to certain omega traits that always turn him on: the way an omega begs inarticulately to be taken, the arch of the back, the wetness.

But Arthur is special. He smells  _so_ good, and because Eames is a greedy bastard, he slips out his fingers and bends down to lap at Arthur’s entrance to taste him. It’s perhaps more intimate than he needs to be, but it won’t matter in the end. He moans appreciatively when, as he suspected, Arthur tastes heavenly—sweet, the liquid melting on his tongue. 

 _Why are you here?_  he wants to ask.  _Any alpha would be lucky to have you._

But such questions are for silly romantics, and he is on the clock. Eames grips Arthur’s waist with his hand, and cradles his length to push the head against Arthur’s tight entrance. “Relax for me, love,” he encourages, even though he’s largely speaking to himself at this point. Still, maybe a part of Arthur understands because Eames is able to press the head in when the muscles relax minutely.

Arthur wails and thrashes a bit, maybe in pain, but mostly because he’s in the midst of heat, and he wants things his body isn’t ready for yet. Eames focuses on breathing steadily because Arthur’s muscles are squeezing him mercilessly. Arthur is not the first omega Eames has deflowered, and he’s always mindful of going slow in the beginning so nothing tears. Ruining an omega in such a fashion is unconscionable, and it could result in them being permanently shunned by alphas.

So Eames waits for Arthur to relax naturally, and then he pushes forward slowly until he’s buried to the hilt. “Good,” he mumbles softly, thumbs stroking over the swell of Arthur’s cheeks, “Very good.”

He thrusts experimentally, head dropping back, lips agape when he gasps at the tightness.  _Bloody hell_. He should have brought a cock ring. Suddenly, Arthur whimpers something—a word—but Eames can’t understand him. “What’s that, darling?” he asks, stroking Arthur’s back comfortingly.

"Please," the omega whimpers again.

Eames grips the young man’s waist and sets a slow, steady pace until the omega is acclimated to the intrusion. Arthur is a hot, writhing mess by the time the alpha’s hips clap against his rear firmly. Eames’ skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and it’s so humid in the room that his lungs feel heavy in his chest when he pants for air. 

Arthur grabs at the headboard so he can thrust backwards, taking Eames deep in a way that instantly impresses the alpha. “Like that?” he growls, adding a little dig to each thrust to coax a surprised cry from the omega.

"Yeah," Arthur moans, to his great surprise. The omega must be more coherent than he initially thought. Eames makes a mental, albeit weak, note not to say anything too terribly filthy.

"Come for me, love," Eames encourages when he feels the omega’s muscles tensing beneath his hands. He knows it won’t be long now, and he pistons his hips forward, driving his cock deep until Arthur cries out, and bucks wildly beneath him.

Eames withdraws quickly, and takes deep, calming breaths. Knotting is strictly against  _Chaleur_ guidelines. The alpha is expected to either come by their own hand, or calm down until the client wants to go another round. Eames usually prefers the latter. It sometimes results in a spectacular case of blue balls, but he prefers it to jerking off, which he always finds rather depressing. He might as well be hunched over his laptop, watching clips of omegas getting plowed on YouPorn.

He lays down beside the omega, back to mattress, and focusing on evening out his breathing as he eyes the ceiling. When Eames glances to the side, he sees a clear-eyed Arthur gazing back at him. The alpha notes his eyes are brown—a rather nice shade of brown, actually. Hazel. “Hey,” he says hoarsely, wondering if the omega is fully coherent.

"Hi," the young man responds softly, oddly shy considering what they’ve just done.

"Was…Are you okay?" he asks, unsure what the protocol is here. He should probably check on the health of his client. That seems like the professional thing to do, he tells himself.

Arthur nods slowly. He looks rather nice like this—cheek pressed to the pillow, nude, his spine dipping elegantly before the supple swell of his ass. His face is flushed an attractive shade of pink, and his hair is a sweaty mess, pointing in various directions.

Eames looks away to the clock on the wall. It’s been an hour. He reaches to the side then and tries to touch Arthur’s brow, but the omega flinches a bit, so he stops short of doing so. “Can I feel your forehead?” he asks.

Arthur’s brow furrows, but he nods, and Eames touches his skin. He’s still hot. Upon closer inspection, Arthur’s pupils are still dilated. The heat will be upon him again soon. Sometimes, heats comes in waves, with lulls in between, like during the eye of a hurricane. 

Eames ends up taking Arthur twice more during their session, the last time with the omega supine beneath him, his long legs wrapped around Eames. They kiss wetly, tongues twined, his hands stroking Arthur’s flanks, and touching his face too much. It’s all too intimate, and he should  _know better_ , but Arthur feels so good, and Eames decides that he deserves to enjoy this moment.

 _Why are you here?_ he asks silently for the hundredth time.

Afterwards, Eames sleeps. He’s allowed to do that as long as the client is in the room with him, and also sleeping. But when he awakes, Arthur is curled up on his side, looking at him. Eames wipes at his eyes, and gazes at the clock in confusion. He dropped off for  _two hours_. He’s never done that before.

"Fuck…Have you been up long?" he asks, peering at Arthur. His pupils are a normal size, and he doesn’t look flushed anymore.

"No," Arthur replies softly. 

"Oh…" Eames answers uselessly. Suddenly, being in bed like this seems wildly inappropriate, and so he quickly climbs off the mattress to locate his tunic and pants. As he pulls on his clothes, he begins rattling off the generic script he delivers to clients at the end of a session. "If you enjoyed your  _Chaleur_ experience, please remember to review us on Yelp, and Yusuf can schedule you for a future session at the front desk.”

Arthur rolls onto his back and watches him with bright, curious eyes, but he doesn’t say anything until Eames is done speaking, and dressing, and stands before him awkwardly. 

"Thanks," he says, just as quietly. 

Eames opens his mouth to ask one of the million questions racing through his mind, but then his jaw clicks shut audibly. It’s  _really_ none of his business.

"Have a good one, Arthur," he says, doing his best casually detached routine. 

Eames picks up his sandals on the way out, and once the door is closed behind him, he drops the shoes to the floor and shoves his feet into them. He can hear Arthur moving about inside the room, so Eames quickly pulls out his file, scribbles the time on the back, and reinserts it against the door. 

He hurries off down the hall so there’s not a chance of Arthur spotting him. Eames has no idea why he suddenly feels anxious.

***

After he showers and changes back into his street clothes, Eames buys a bag of chips from the break room vending machine, and wanders out to the front desk to get his schedule for tomorrow from Yusuf.

"Well, well, well," his friend declares in that annoying way that means he has something over Eames. "Here’s the golden stud himself."

Eames is chewing noisily on a crisp, so he furrows his brow at Yusuf and stares at him like he’s gone mad. “Wha?” he finally asks.

"That kid, Arthur. He booked you for every month through the end of the year."

He swallows the bolus and blinks. “Oh….good,” Eames says vaguely, leaning over the desk to eye tomorrow’s schedule. 

“ _Good_?” Yusuf laughs disbelievingly. “That dick of yours must be a magic-bloody-wand, my friend.”

Eames chuckles, but it sounds emaciated. “You know it,” he answers, winking at Yusuf before he turns away from the desk.

He suddenly doesn’t feel well, and he wants to go lay down in his apartment for a while.

"You take care of Eames Junior!" Yusuf calls at his back. "I’m serious, mate. Keep him in a glass case at night. He’s going to put my kids through university!"

Eames flips off Yusuf before he pushes open the exit door. He needs to get far away from the den, as quickly as possible. He’s not sure why, but Eames has a feeling he mucked things up. Maybe it was the way Arthur looked at him. Maybe they kissed too much.

Whatever it is, he knows this isn’t the end of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur returns.

Of course, Eames is right, and Arthur returns to the den right on schedule.

 

He breezes through the staff entrance and checks the day's schedule to find he has only two appointments, which is fairly unusual for him. But then again, it's December, around the holidays, so many omegas are travelling or visiting their families, and they'll visit other dens closer to their immediate locations.

 

Eames shucks his coat, clothes, shoes, and socks, and changes into his uniform. Then he heads down the outer perimeter towards column D, which is when he crosses paths with Mal, one of the other alpha workers.

 

"Hello, my dear," she purrs pleasantly, but with her usual undercurrent of predatory grace.

 

Eames bows his head. "Mallorie." 

 

Her dark eyes drift past him, checking to see if they're alone. She leans forward slightly, and Eames can smell her perfume: rich and sweet. "I know something you don't know," she says, her dark lips curling at the corner.

 

Eames furrows his brow and gazes at her curiously, silently waiting for her to continue, but of course she doesn't because Mal always talks in riddles, and that's part of her power over omegas, and truthfully most alphas. 

 

He watches as she walks past him and sashays down the hallway, and Eames doesn't even bother to call out after her because there's no point. Mal prefers to dangle little nuggets like that in front of people's faces just to see them squirm.

 

She's terrifying and ridiculously sexy.

 

Eames is busily dissecting the mindfuck, so he doesn't realize he's been watching Mal walk down the hallway until she disappears around the corner, and only then does he snap out of the daze. 

 

 _Bloody hell_. 

 

Quickly, he walks to column D, door three, and consults the chart.

 

 _Arthur_. _Fuck._

 

Eames puts the chart back in the slot and looks down the hallway. He wonders if Mal checked his schedule, and the door, and then he ponders if she knows what happened between him and Arthur. Not that anything really happened, he reminds himself. Then he realizes there's no way Mal could know that, and he's just being paranoid, which of course is what she wants.

 

He squares his shoulders, liberates his mind of such silly nonsense, and walks into the room.

 

It's not like last time.

 

Arthur isn't already in heat. In fact, he looks rather clear-eyed when he looks at Eames from his seat on the edge of the bed. It shouldn't be awkward, he reminds himself. They engaged in a consensual business transaction, just as he has hundreds of times before, and he _hasn't_ done anything wrong. 

 

But it doesn't help. Eames stands in front of the closed door, and gazes at Arthur, who silently stares back at him.

 

"Hello," Eames finally says because it's so damn uncomfortable he wants to run screaming from the room, and then the den, and never look back.

 

"Hi," Arthur answers quietly, and it's so eerily reminiscent of their first time that Eames has a dizzing sense of deja vu, and then he's angry at himself for silently dubbing the transaction their _first time_.

 

"I consulted your chart," he says, segueing into professional lingo in the hopes it will construct a wall between himself and Arthur. "You're a bit early, and you won't start your heat for an hour, or so, but in the meantime, I can bring you a beverage, or some food if you like," he adds, and when Arthur doesn't immediately reply to that, he keeps talking: "We have wifi. I can bring you a laptop, and you can watch some television, or a film—"

 

"I was hoping we could talk," Arthur murmurs, quietly interrupting him.

 

Eames presses his lips together. It's not an unusual request, but he's instantly filled with dread. "Of course," he says, keeping his voice level as he moves to the chair, and takes a seat across from the bed.

 

This is part of his job too. Sometimes, clients want to speak with their alpha before the session begins out of a sense of obligation, even though that's unnecessary and silly, or perhaps because they're nervous.

 

"What's your name?" Arthur asks, and when Eames looks at the omega, he _really_ looks at him. Now that they're not dealing with Arthur's heat, he takes in details he missed before, and sees the young man is pale, bags under his eyes, maybe a little underweight. But he's not sick. At least, his chart didn't indicate he's sick.

 

"Eames," he says, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he tries to keep things light. "Thought you knew that. You requested me every month this year, after all."

 

Arthur's cheeks flush in response, the blush extending to his ears, which Eames notices stick out a bit. "I just told Yusuf I wanted to see you again. He didn't say your name," he whispers, and Eames has to lean forward a little to hear him.

 

"Ah," Eames says, crossing his legs, and rubbing the fingers on his right hand against his thumb. He looks around the room and surreptitiously glances at the clock on the wall.

 

When he looks back at Arthur, the young man is gazing at him. "How old are you?"

 

Eames exhales a little loudly through his nose, and Arthur visibly flinches at the telltale sign. The alpha is bored—even a little annoyed by the prying questions—and Arthur knows it. He curses himself, and smiles brightly at him to put the omega at ease. "Twenty-five, love. But don't I look much younger?" He turns a bit on the chair so Arthur can see the front and his profile, and then he throws a saucy look his way.

 

Arthur smiles faintly. "Yeah," he agrees softly.

 

Silence settles between them again, and Eames fluctuates between strange anxiousness and boredom. He doesn't know why the omega just doesn't let him leave until he's actually in heat. Why do they have to make idle chitchat? There had been an undeniable, strong attraction between them before, but that was during Arthur's heat. Now, he just wants to escape to the safety of his flat with his bulldog, Matty, and his Xbox.

 

Arthur nervously tugs at the cuff of his sweater, pulling it down lower on his hand like he's trying to shrink inside the clothing. "So is…this what you do?"

 

As the omega pulls at the sleeve, the neckline dips a bit, and Eames eyes his collarbone. "Full-time," he agrees simply, and glances at the clock again.

 

Arthur nods, and then grows silent again, and when Eames looks at his face, he can tell the young man is dutifully filing away the information. Suddenly, the pieces fall into place. Arthur was a star, a virgin, and now he's trying to learn about the alpha who took his virginity. The realization makes his stomach drop. This is bad. _Really_ bad. He's heard about omegas getting attached to alphas after their first time, but he's always been fortunate to avoid such messy situations.

 

Eames stands up quickly. "I have to go ask Yusuf something. I'll be back in a bit," he says, not giving Arthur a chance to respond, and being careful to avoid looking at the omega's face as he rushes from the room.

 

***

 

Yusuf, the bastard, is sitting at the front desk, playing Minesweeper on the computer. 

 

"I need to cancel my noon appointment," Eames says without preamble, hands braced on the glass surface of the desk.

 

Yusuf doesn't look away from the screen. "And why is that?" he murmurs, mouse cursor dancing over the grey squares as he contemplates his next move.

 

"Feeling ill," he spits with enough desperate hostility that the man looks away from the game and stares at him.

 

"Bullshit," Yusuf answers, as only a lifelong friend can, without a trace of sympathy.

 

Eames throws up his hands accusatively towards the heavens. "It's me stomach. What can I say, mate? I'm seconds from retching all over the place."

 

Yusuf smiles lecherously at him. "Might this have anything to do with Arthur being your noon booking?"

 

He glares slowly at the curly-haired prat. 

 

The beta explodes in laughter. "Oh, bollocks. I knew it. I _knew_ it. I told Mal that boy has a crush on you. I mean, who books _every_ month?" he cries, hunching over on the stool, and bracing his elbows on the countertop. 

 

Eames watches him, muted and seething. 

 

When he finally calms down, after wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, Yusuf shakes his head. "Just deal with it, mate. You're not the first alpha in this position. He'll get over it," he says, smiling brightly the whole time. "And if he doesn't get over it, even better for business!"

 

He takes a moment to glare at Yusuf, just so the man understand the magnitude of his hatred for him, and then quickly leans over to grab the computer mouse and click around wildly until he hits a mine, and a pixelated explosion occurs on-screen.

 

"Oi!" Yusuf shouts, but Eames is already storming away from him, towards the break room. "Eames, you wanker!" the beta calls at his back.

 

***

 

He buys a bag of chips from the vending machine, and sits on a bench in the changing room, eating the crisps slowly. Then he phones his mum and speaks with her for a bit. Then he wanders the outer corridor as slowly as possible without raising suspicion when he happens to cross another alpha worker, or an omega client. He does everything in his power to burn time, until he's certain Arthur must be starting his heat.

 

Only then does he return to the room.

 

When he opens the door, Arthur is curled up on the floor, the bedside table overturned by his head.

 

"Fuck," Eames hisses, rushing forward to grab Arthur by the arms and heave him off the floor. His sweater is already soaked with sweat, and his eyes are rolled back in his head. "Arthur," Eames whispers, shaking him a bit. 

 

When he lays out the youth on the bed, Arthur groans, and starts writhing, nearly falling off the bed again, but this time Eames is there to sit on the edge to prevent him from rolling off. "Shh," he soothes, touching the side of his face. 

 

"Don't, don't…" the omega whispers, cringing in what looks like pain. Eames quickly withdraws his hand, misunderstanding his meaning, until Arthur groans through clenched teeth. "Don't leave…don't leave me."

 

His chest tightens. He feels guilty, not just because Arthur is a pathetic mess, but because he behaved so unprofessionally. He left his client unattended too long because of his own hang-ups. "I won't. I'm right here," he promises.

 

Eames carefully undresses Arthur, then sheds his own clothing, and this time rolls the omega onto his stomach so he can fuck him behind, and so there's no chance of them kissing. He thinks he's found a solution to their precarious situation as he grips Arthur's hips and slams into him until the omega is wailing, but then Arthur reaches back, groping to touch him, and covers Eames' hand with his own.

 

Suddenly he's draped across Arthur's back, the omega sprawled out flat against the mattress, their fingers twined as Eames keeps Arthur's hands pinned by his head, and they're kissing. 

 

It started when he leaned down and gently bit Arthur's neck, something he's never done before because he shouldn't mark a client like an alpha would its mate, but he's possessed by the desire to do so. Then, Arthur turns his head, his cheek pressed to the pillow, and looks at him, and his eyes are dark and beautiful, and Eames kisses him. 

 

They kiss for a long time, and Eames slows down so each stroke is deep, and he can breathe into Arthur's mouth, and the omega moans so sweetly. He deliriously wonders if Arthur is on suppressants, if maybe he can come inside him, but then the rational part of his brain kicks into gear: of course he's not on suppressants. That's the whole reason why he's here. He's frightened that the thought of knotting even crossed his mind, and so he pulls away from Arthur, pins the omega by his wrists, and fucks him hard until Arthur wails, and Eames can tell he's coming.

 

Eames pulls out quickly and jerks off onto the sheets, collapsing to the side, and clenching his dick as the knot swells. He spends the rest of the session miserably slumped on the bed, back braced against the wall, as he waits for his knot to go down.'

 

He's angry when he dresses—angry at himself, and with Arthur, who _has_ to know the effect he's having on the alpha, and he decides the omega must be doing this deliberately to seduce him. Well, he's not going to play that game.

 

"You're going to have to see someone else from now on," Eames says as he pulls on his pants and the tunic.

 

Arthur is still flushed and dazed, but he frowns deeply, and sits up. "What? Why?"

 

Eames tries not to look at him—glancing at the clock, and then pretending to check his pockets even though he knows they're empty. "Because I don't bloody want to see you anymore, all right?!" Eames shouts, and his fury surprises them both.

 

Arthur kneels on the bed, like he wants to beg the alpha to stay, and his eyes are wide—filled with shock and horror. "What did I do?" he asks softly.

 

"What does it matter?" Eames spits, finding his sandals and kicking them until he can slips his toes into them. "We're not _friends_ , all right? I'm telling a client that I'm terminating this work arrangement, understand?"

 

He can hear Arthur's breath quicken, and he absolutely refuses to look at the omega because Eames is certain he's crying, and if he sees tears on Arthur's face, he's not sure he'll be able to go through with this.

 

"Tell Yusuf you want to see another alpha," he instructs, looking at the door, his back to the bed.

 

"But I don't want to," Arthur whispers, his voice wavering.

 

"Just _tell_ him!" Eames barks, and stalks from the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

He doesn't know what he expected to happen, but Eames is still surprised, nonetheless, when he goes to pick up his paycheck from Yusuf later in the week, and his friend announces, "Well, you got your wish, mate."

 

Eames tears open the envelope and hums happily when he sees his compensation. "What's that?"

 

Yusuf gazes up at him from his stool, peeking over the silver rims of his glasses. "Arthur. He's asked to see a different alpha next time."

 

He stares quietly at the beta for a moment, and then nods. "Ah. Good."

 

As he walks from the building, Eames reminds himself this is a good thing, and healthier for the both of them. It's not until he looks down and sees he's crumpled his paycheck in his fist that Eames comprehends that might not be the full truth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames tries to forget.

Eames tries to forget. 

 

He invites a pack of his mates over, and they drink too much, play on the Xbox, and then take the party downtown which is when the night gets a bit spotty for Eames. He remembers flashes of visiting various drinking establishments, and then he awakes on his couch to find his dog, Matty, licking his face.

 

When he rolls over, he realizes two things: he has the world's worst hangover and the knuckles on his right hand are torn and bloody.

 

The third thing he realizes is he's supposed to work today.

 

He exhales, breath hot, thick, and still soaked with alcohol, and softly mutters: "Fuck." Eames does _not_ want to be inside the den today, mostly because it will remind him of Arthur, and then he'll think of Arthur _crying_ because of him.

 

Because he's a total prat.

 

"Daddy made a mess of things," he murmurs once Matty climbs onto his chest, and he scratches under the pup's ears. 

 

Matty snorts sympathetically.

 

It's undeniable that a bond has started to form between them. He doesn't remember much of last night, but what he does recall isn't good: staring longingly at any slight brunette who passed his way, drinking, drinking _so_ much—anything that would help him forget Arthur's face, and the way Arthur feels beneath him.

 

His head throbs again, and Eames pinches his eyes closed.

 

This is the universe punishing him.

 

Matty licks the furrowed center of his brow.

 

***

 

Maybe, Eames bargains desperately with himself, he can _break_ the bond. He thinks about this option as he showers, and then downs glass after glass of water, and as he rides the tube to his stop. Yes, a bond has started, but bonds can be broken. It's a slow, lengthy process, but it _is_ possible. Eames has heard stories of bonded mates, who through diligence and determination, were able to start over anew.

 

Of course, this is much, much harder for an omega to accomplish than an alpha.

 

He thinks of Arthur's face again, and though he'd been a coward and refused to look at the omega when he'd been so cruel to him that day, for some reason, Eames can still imagine what his face must look like when he cries: his wet, flushed cheeks, doe eyes brimming with tears.

 

Some omegas die from a broken bond.

 

Eames quickly shoves the thought from his mind. They're not fully bonded, and besides, those are just stories he's heard. Certainly, Arthur won't die.

 

 _He won't_.

 

The rest of his week is miserable, and Eames simply goes through the motions, but every interaction feels like an out-of-body experience. From far away, he watches himself speak to clients and Yusuf. Perched high above, he sees himself have sex with omegas whose faces he can't remember, even if they happen to be repeat visitors he's known for months now.

 

Food has no taste, and he doesn't dream at night. He closes his eyes for what feels like a handful of seconds, and awakes to the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window.

 

The hangover that apparently wasn't just a hangover never leaves him. He's pale, permanent bags hang under his eyes, and he's so, so tired all the time. 

 

"You look like shit," Yusuf summarizes succinctly one day. "You know, we have grooming guidelines for a reason. Don't scare off the omegas."

 

Eames dabs a little concealer under his eyes to reduce the dark marks, and pinches his cheeks until he looks like a little less like death warmed over. None of the customers complain—not even when it takes him longer than usual to get hard. Granted, this is usually because the clients are half-crazed from their heats, but even the ones a bit more coherent don't point out that Eames is very obviously having trouble getting an erection. 

 

Which has never happened to him before.

 

He can't stop seeing Arthur's face when he closes his eyes—even just to blink. And it's no coincidence he can't get hard _until_ he imagines Arthur's smile.

 

***

 

Eames assumes he's hallucinating one day when he's walking down the outer corridor and nearly runs right into Arthur.

 

He should bow his head and keep walking, but finds he can't move, and instead stares directly into Arthur's eyes, which is in itself a fireable offense. Arthur isn't his client. He has no business looking at a non-client omega.

 

The omega looks back at him. He looks…much like Eames: pale, exhausted, but also too thin, cheekbones jutting out against the sallow plains. But despite his ill appearance, Arthur smells exquisite, and Eames knows he's inhaling greedily when he feels his chest expanding rapidly. 

 

Of course Arthur smells good. He'll be going into heat soon, and Eames tries not to think too deeply about how he's secretly been counting down the days to this moment—that he now subconsciously always knows when Arthur will be going into heat.

 

Arthur will be wet and desperate soon, and some other alpha will fuck him.

 

His jaw tightens. Eames wants to tear down the walls just thinking about that inevitability. "Who're you here to see?" he asks—aiming for casual, and growling instead.

 

Arthur smiles thinly, but there's no humor in the expression. "What does it matter?" he whispers, throwing Eames' own words back in his face.

 

"I want to know," Eames says, stepping forward. He's way out of line here, but he doesn't care.

 

The omega doesn't shrink away from him. Arthur's dark eyes remained locked on him. "We're not friends," he says, continuing to recite the last cruel words Eames said to him, and Eames' heart hammers painfully in his chest in response—a mixture of panic and fury. "I'm a client telling a worker to _fuck off_ ," Arthur hisses, and shoulders past him to continue walking down the hallway as he shouts one last word over his shoulder: "Understand?"

 

Eames rushes to the break room to consult the staff schedule. It's 11:50, so Arthur must have booked a noon appointment, and there are only two alphas with bookings for that time: Jared and Steve. He's not sure why, but he's immediately seized by the certainty that Arthur will being seeing Steve. _Of course_ it's Steve—the big Swedish git. He checks the location: column A, door 2.

 

What a coincidence. Eames has an appointment with Josh for 12:15 in the same column, next-door in room 3. He practically runs to the room, and when he throws open the door, Josh looks up in surprise. "Hey," the young man says, prying off a brace to lean it against the bedside table. "You're early," he adds in confusion, watching Eames cross the room and press his ear to the wall. "You okay?"

 

"Shh.." Eames chastises, waving his hand in Josh's general direction so he'll be quiet. Then he listens for anything—the sound of a moan, or the creak of a mattress spring. He has no idea why he's doing this to himself. Of course Steve and Arthur are going to have sex. It's a contractual obligation. This isn't personal at all. It's business.

 

When he looks back at the omega, Josh is watching him warily, brows raised. "Dude, you look crazy."

 

Eames is breathing heavily, hair probably a mess from racing to the room, and he tries to pull himself together. His hands smooth back his hair, and he smirks in what he hopes is a charmingly self-deprecating way. "Just a…busy week," he says right before the headboard next door bumps against the wall.

 

Things get a bit spotty after that.

 

He vaguely remembers running from the room and kicking door 2 clean off its hinges. Eames remembers a flash of Steve's bare back, and feeling sick when he knows Arthur is somewhere there under him, and then the flesh tearing open on his right hand again when he hits the alpha across the face. Arthur is screaming, and tries to pull him off, but it's no use. He might as well be a mosquito trying to reason with a rabid bull. 

 

Eames is in a total frenzy, but thank God— _thank God—_ a couple of alpha workers hear what's happening and rush in to split them up.

 

Otherwise, he would have killed Steve. He would have torn out the man's throat because Arthur is his mate. Arthur is _his_. 

 

_Arthur._

 

They lock him in a storage closet until he calms down, and then transfer him to Yusuf's office, which historically speaking, has always been the kiss of death for workers. If you're summoned to the back office, you're as good as fired.

 

By the time he fully regains consciousness, Arthur is long gone, and he's left alone with Yusuf, who stares at him gravely as he perches against the edge of his desk.

 

"You firing me?" Eames murmurs, shifting a bit on his chair. He tugs at his wrists, which is when he comprehends they've handcuffed him. Probably for everyone's protection. If he was feeling even remotely cheeky, he'd ask his friend why he has handcuffs, but in his current state, Eames can barely piece together what's happening.

 

His lip hurts, and when he sucks on it, it feels puffy and tastes like blood. Steve must have gotten a lucky shot in.

 

" _Fire_ you?" Yusuf asks disbelievingly. "Mate, you do understand if I called alpha control, they could have you put down, yeah?"

 

Eames hangs his head, chin resting against his chest. That thought never occurred to him. Unruly alphas aren't tolerated by a civilized society. Those that kill or attack unthinkingly are euthanized by the state. "You should," he mutters miserably. 

 

Anything would be better than feeling like this.

 

Yusuf sighs dramatically. "I didn't bloody say I was going to call them, did I?" When Eames looks up again, his friend stares at him in exasperation. "One month. No pay," he adds.

 

Eames stares at him in confusion before he understands what Yusuf is telling him: he's not going to prison to be killed, he's not even being _fired_. This is a slap on the wrist. "What?" he whispers, confused.

 

Yusuf rolls his eyes. "You're my mate, and this is blatant favoritism, but I'm not firing you. But look, Eames, you've got to get yourself sorted."

 

He shifts, and the handcuffs clanking together underscore Yusuf's point. "Don't know how," he murmurs sullenly, and now that he's a bit more coherent, he realizes the right side of his face is throbbing too. Vaguely, he recalls one of the alphas slamming him against the floor, gripping him by the hair, and forcing the side of his face against the planks to subdue him.

 

The beta crosses his arms and huffs. "Bloody sort things out with Arthur, you idiot. He's clearly your mate, which explains you acting like a lunatic lately."

 

Eames winces. Somehow, hearing another person articulate his plight makes is very real and even more terrifying. 

 

"But I have to warn you," Yusuf continues. "You're no good to me mated. It's Arthur or _Chaleur_ , mate."

 

He nods slowly. Of course, all along he's known that will be the ultimate choice he has to make. If he chooses Arthur, everything else in his life changes. He'll have to get a different job, but he doesn't know where, or what that will entail. And all of this hinges on the condition that Arthur still wants him at all. Otherwise, he's doomed to wander the earth, broken and empty until he expires or someone puts him out of his misery.

 

"I know," he murmurs.

 

Yusuf uncuffs him eventually. "Go talk to Arthur, mate," he says, patting Eames' shoulder affectionately (or what Yusuf thinks qualifies as affection, anyway). "If he shoots you down, you have a job here."

 

Because Yusuf is a bastard, but he's also Eames' best friend.

 

***

 

Yusuf "accidentally" leaves Arthur's personal file on the front counter so Eames can see where he goes to school, and what he listed as his occupation. There's no business name, but he wrote down an address, so Eames goes to the place.

 

It's a fast-food restaurant: _Senior Clucky's_ , and Eames stares for a moment at the giant cartoon chicken clutching maracas, slowly rotating above an axis on the building's roof, before he walks through the front door.

 

The place reeks of grease, and Eames hides at a table in the back to wait and watch.

 

There's a group of high school students occupying one of the big tables, and they're a rowdy crowd, whooping and hollering as they eat their meals.

 

Arthur appears a few minutes later, dressed in the standard _Senior Clucky's_ uniform: an ugly green and orange affair with a matching hat. The omega eyes the table of teenagers warily as he goes about clearing the tables and sweeping the floor. 

 

One of the teens, an alpha, judging by the size of him, elbows his buddy and nods towards Arthur. The friend picks up on the cue and sucks on a bit of paper, then shoves the small cluster into a straw, aims it at Arthur, and blows into the other end powerfully, nailing the omega's cheek with the spit ball.

 

The table erupts with laughter, and Arthur flushes, cringes in disgust, and quickly wipes his face. He then hurries into the back room.

 

Eames watches all of this, stunned.

 

He doesn't know what, exactly, he thought Arthur did in his day-to-day life, but certainly not this.

 

***

 

He waits for a long time until the teenagers leave, and Arthur timidly emerges again like a spooked deer. He resumes cleaning: sweeping, and washing the tables, until he reaches the back and sees Eames.

 

Arthur freezes, arms slack at his side, one hand holding the broom handle, and the other a bucket of water. He's clearly shocked, and also humiliated, which Eames hates.

 

In the hallway at _Chaleur_ , Arthur had been angry, which Eames also hated, but he at least had dignity. He'd been able to tell Eames off in a way that indicated he'd thought long and hard about how exactly he'd like to burn the alpha. And it had worked. His words had wounded Eames deeply, but now…Arthur looks like he wants to die that Eames has seen him like this.

 

Which wasn't Eames intention, at all.

 

"Wait," he says when Arthur goes to turn and leave. "Arthur," he pleads, and the omega eyes him warily.

 

"What?" he asks softly. He looks heartbroken, like he might cry, and Eames' chest tightens painfully.

 

"I just wanted to see you," he confesses, deciding honesty is the only way he'll be able to dig himself out of this hole. 

 

Arthur eyes him hesitantly, but he's not leaving, so that's a net gain, in Eames' opinion. "I have to work," he replies, and the alpha deflates a little. 

 

He initially interprets the deflection as rejection, but then he stops to think. Maybe Arthur just doesn't want to have this conversation here—at this place he clearly hates. 

 

"I can wait," Eames says, eyebrows arched hopefully.

 

Arthur frowns at him. "It'll be hours."

 

The alpha shrugs. "I'll wait," he says, and when Arthur still looks on the fence about everything, probably because Eames first rejected him and then nearly beat another alpha to death in front of him, he emphasizes: "I'll wait for you, Arthur." 

 

Apparently, he successfully conveys his earnestness because the omega's eyes brighten a little, and his cheeks darken, flushed. "Um…okay," he says, flashes a quick smile, and hurries away.

 

Eames doesn't want to leave the restaurant because he's afraid Arthur will finish his shift, not see the alpha there, and then leave without him. So he sits in the back booth for hours, and when the manager says he has to buy something or leave, he buys a small Coke and a kid-size vessel of chicken pieces, and eats them as slowly as possible, biding his time.

 

Finally, it's five o'clock, and Arthur emerges from the back, still dressed in his uniform, minus the hat, which he clutches in his hand nervously.

 

"Okay," he announces when he's standing in front of Eames. "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames have a talk.

Josh sits on the edge of the bed and eyes the alpha nervously. "R-really, this isn't necessary. I told Yusuf I'm not mad at Eames. I can wait to reschedule with him."

 

Mal unzips the back of her dress and slides the black spaghetti straps off her shoulders. He watches, entranced, as she shimmies out of the fabric, and then neatly steps from the dress once it's pooled around her kitten heels. "Nonsense," she says, sweet but assertive. "Eames was very rude to run out on your appointment, so I am here to make it up to you, mon amour."

 

Dressed in a strapless bra and lacy black underwear, she saunters towards him, a dangerous little smile curling her red lips. She smells exquisite—like lilac and something dense and heady that leaves him dizzy when he gazes up at her. Her eyes are brown, nearly black, and all the wonders of the universe churn inside them. When they lock eyes, he's sure her pupils are going to expand and eventually consume them both.

 

Already, he feels the heat coming—his body warming, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. 

 

Mal reaches back to unhook her bra, and then she's standing there—exposed and perfect—but he can't look away from her face. "Men are silly, aren't they?" she purrs, cupping the sides of his face.

 

"Y-yes. We are," he murmurs before she leans down to kiss him.

 

He returns the embrace.

 

As if he could deny her anything.

 

***

 

They walk quietly from _Senior Clucky's_ , and Eames isn't sure if he should say something, but the noise from the busy street would make it difficult to converse anyway, so he remains silent. Luckily, Arthur lives nearby in a rundown complex between a garage mechanic and an MMA gym. As they scale the narrow steps to the third floor, the sounds of  Arthur's noisy neighbors emanate from behind the closed doors: blaring televisions, verbal fights, a lone dog barking.

 

The place is awful, and Eames feel anxious just being there, but he doesn't say anything because Arthur will probably grow self-conscious and shut down completely. 

 

Inside the omega's flat is somehow worse. It's a single room with a built-in "kitchen" in the corner that's really just a sink and a cupboard, and there isn't even a bathroom, so Eames assumes there's a communal washroom somewhere on the floor.

 

Eames knows students don't usually enjoy lives of luxury, but this is dire even by broke pupil standards. "So…" he says, trying to keep his tone light as he looks around for a place to sit (there's only the mattress in the corner, but sitting on that seems a bit presumptuous). "You're a student?"

 

Arthur purses his lips and puts his hat on the counter. "Not anymore. Dropped out," he says softly and walks to the sink to wash his hands—probably to wash away the grease smell.

 

Eames furrows his brow. "Why?"

 

The omega sighs, turns off the water, and shakes the excess moisture off his hands. "Broke, mostly," he murmurs, walking past Eames, and sitting on the edge of the mattress. He looks up at the alpha sullenly, and when Eames doesn't say anything, he adds: "Architecture school is expensive."

 

Eames nods, processing that information. "Architecture, ay? Impressive," and he means is as a compliment, but Arthur looks uncomfortable with the praise, so he moves on. "Why did you say _mostly_?"

 

Not for the first time, he's struck by how small the omega looks, especially now as he perches on the side of the bed, his knees pulled to his chest. "Anxiety," Arthur sighs, smiling thinly, self-deprecatingly.

 

Eames stares at him in confusion. "But…you're file. You didn't list any disorders."

 

"Well, it's not like I have a doctor's note, Eames. I'm undiagnosed. I just know…when I'm around people…it's bad. I hate it," he grips the fabric of his pants and tugs a bit, sighing. "I'm not like Rain Man. You don't have to feel sorry for me."

 

He doesn't know how he's looking at Arthur, but he turns and walks into the kitchen nook and leans against the sink. "It's normal, you know. A lot of omegas are very shy."

 

Arthur snorts derisively. "It's not _shyness_. I have full-blown panic attacks. I can't talk to people. I can't even look them in the eyes normally," he murmurs, fiddling with the cuff of his uniform, fingers picking and tugging at a stray strand.

 

 _Normally_ , Eames thinks, turning the word over and over in his head, and wondering what that means. Arthur looked him in the eye, but he was in full-blown heat, and they're…Well, he's still not sure what they are to each other.

 

"How can you afford Chaleur if you're broke?" he asks instead because he doesn't know what to say about Arthur's anxiety.

 

Arthur shrugs, but his shoulders are tense and he looks unhappy with this line of questioning. If Eames wasn't an alpha, he probably would have asked him to leave by now. "Save my money from working," he answers simply.

 

Eames looks around again. Arthur could probably afford a moderately better flat if he saved his paychecks, but he can't because he has heats, and he's too afraid to go out and meet alphas on his own. So he goes to Chaleur instead. 

 

He goes to _Eames_ in his times of need.

 

 _But not anymore_ , he thinks.

 

Something throbs painfully deep inside his chest. "I can't sleep," he blurts out before he can think of a better way to lead into things.

 

Arthur looks up slowly, the stray thread forgotten. "Me either," he replies softly, and when Eames looks at him, the omega gazes back at him calmly. He doesn't seem to have a problem looking at Eames, though Arthur does have dark shadows under his eyes, and he again notes the sunken appearance of his cheeks. Eames knows he hasn't been eating or taking care of himself as he should. "Why'd you beat up that alpha?"

 

Eames' heart pounds somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He has no idea why he thought he would be able to avoid this line of questioning, but he had harbored that naive hope, and here they are anyway. "Steve?" he asks needlessly, but he's trying to buy himself some time, and when Arthur nods in response, he sighs. "I didn't want him to touch you."

 

"Why?" Arthur asks, turning the tables. Now he's the one asking all kinds of uncomfortable questions Eames really doesn't want to answer.

 

Eames laughs because he knows what he's feeling is absurd. He's an absurd man, and this is a mad situation, and who the bloody hell is Arthur to question him anyway? "Where're your parents anyway?" he asks angrily, the fury directed at Arthur a little bit, but mostly himself for coming here and making himself vulnerable. He should be focused on breaking the bond. _Why is he here?_

 

"Dead," Arthur responds succinctly, in a way that totally sucks the wind from Eames' sails. "Why didn't you want Steve to touch me?"

 

His throat is dry and the room is getting smaller, he's sure of it. Somehow, Arthur and the mattress are much closer than before, and he can't look away from the omega's face. Eames is a masterful liar—it sort of runs part and parcel of the sex work industry—but he's panicking because he knows he can't lie to Arthur. He can parry weakly to buy himself mere seconds, but he's just a pitiful insect thrashing in a spider's web, instinctively fighting against the inevitable.

 

 _Because you're mine_ , is the obvious answer on the tip of his tongue, but staring into that bottomless chasm terrifies him. Once he jumps, he doesn't know if he'll ever hit bottom. Maybe he'll fall forever.

 

"I keep dreaming of you," he answers instead, which at least results in Arthur flushing and looking away. Without those wide, doe eyes locked on him, Eames can think a little more clearly. He could run. He could flee Arthur's flat, jump on the tube, and be home by dinner time. He'll call the lads, and they'll come over bringing gifts of liquor and weed, and Eames will get properly sauced. 

 

He can forget Arthur. There's still time.

 

He can pillage and plow every fertile omega in this city until he forgets about Arthur, a broken omega in a ridiculous fast food uniform. He wants to desecrate the image of the omega tenderly cradled in his heart so he can walk out of here a free man. He should say something really cruel to Arthur—something to shatter him into a million pieces—so things will forever be ruined between them. He must be unimaginably cruel and raze the bond to the earth, or he'll forever be linked to this young man he barely knows.

 

Eames opens his mouth to spout one of the poisonous thoughts when Arthur suddenly looks at him. "I dream of you too."

 

With five little words, the omega successfully demolishes Eames' plans for escape. He feels a little dizzy, and leans against the kitchen counter for support. So this isn't just some silly crush. If Arthur is dreaming of him too, then they really are beginning to bond. He can feel the threads between them tightening every second he's here, breathing in Arthur's scent and sharing oxygen with him. Every second that ticks by pulls them closer until they'll fall into each other and forever be lost.

 

 _Or found_ , his treacherous mind supplies.

 

The fragile peace between them shatters when Arthur stands up suddenly. "I should…shower and stuff," he murmurs, gesturing vaguely across the room. 

 

Eames doesn't know what _and stuff_ entails, but he imagines it must be similar to his own plans: escaping this awkward conversation. It seems ridiculous that they could just admit to _dreaming_ about each other, and now they're scrambling to save face, but here they are: two social invalids, stumbling and stuttering through talking out their emotions.

 

Arthur is handing him his out, and he should take it. If he was a smart man, he'd slip from the flat and never come back.

 

Instead, when Arthur approaches him, maybe to escort him from the room, he reaches up and cradles the omega's neck so his thumb press gently against the top bottom of the uniform's collar—right against the dip in Arthur's clavicle.

 

Eames feels the breath hitch in his throat, and he squeezes his fingers carefully, not to inflict pain, but just to keep the omega in place so he can look at him. Arthur is beautiful up close—pale skin and gorgeous bone structure. Eames doesn't understand how people can look at him every day and not marvel at his magnificent presence. He thinks of the teens who torment Arthur and he wants to hunt them down one-by-one and break their bones.

 

Arthur's pulse races under his fingers, and Eames stares at the pink line of his mouth. He's been a terrible alpha. Arthur is his to care for—to feed and protect. He's allowed his mate to fend for himself against taunts and poverty, and when a crushing wave of guilt slams into him, Eames nearly misses when the omega's mouth moves.

 

"Are you going to leave again?" Arthur asks softly, his eyes wet with tears. 

 

Eames hates himself as he carefully slips the top button from its slot. He hates himself even as he leans down to mouth at Arthur's throat, and the omega exhales audibly. He's an awful alpha, unworthy of Arthur, but for some reason the omega wants him. There are natural wonders in the world—Eames once saw a book with glossy photos of breathtaking gardens, and a canyon, and a reef—but ranked among them should be the fact that Arthur chose him, of all alphas, as his mate.

 

"Never," he answers sincerely. "Never, Arthur."

 

He doesn't know what he'll do to make money now, or how he's going to support them both, but Eames decides to figure it out later. When he's finished unbuttoning the shirt, Eames slides the fabric aside so he can press Arthur's bare chest against him. The omega trembles in his arms, and when Eames kisses his jawline, the skin is wet, and he realizes Arthur is crying.

 

"Don't leave me, okay?" he pleads, so quietly Eames can barely hear the words despite their close proximity.

 

He answers with a soft pained noise—a reflexive response to causing Arthur agony, to making him cry. The omega throws his arms around Eames' neck when the alpha picks him up and slowly walks them over to the bed.

 

Eames knows he'll never leave now, and the knowledge should cause him to panic, but it doesn't. Instead, he finally feels relieved. Arthur is his, and he's Arthur's, and simply acknowledging that basic truth feels as though his heart has been released from a vise.  

 

He drops the omega down onto the bed and climbs on top of him. Kissing Arthur feels so good, and Eames moans an embarrassing amount into the omega's mouth, but luckily, Arthur seems just as eager because he clings to Eames, and writhes in a most appealing way beneath the alpha. He strokes back the fringe from Arthur's brow and kisses the skin there, which is slick with perspiration and burning hot. "I'll take care of you, darling," Eames whispers, hoping the simple statement will convey his intentions in the immediate and long-term.

 

Cupping between the omega's thighs, Eames rubs his hardening cock as he kisses down the column of Arthur's throat, and tugs off his shirt. The omega wiggles and arches, assisting in any way he can, until the shirt is cast aside onto the floor, and Eames can mouth at his pert nipples. When he presses his lips over Arthur's heart, he can feel the organ pounding wildly just beneath the surface. "Eames," the omega breathes quietly, fingers curling in his hair to tug gently.

 

He unbuckles Arthur's slacks and slides them off his narrow hips. The bones protrude too sharply against the skin, and Eames covers the area with his hands, squeezing them protectively. While he had trouble sleeping, Arthur was physically wasting away, and anger grips him again when he remembers how selfish he's behaved. 

 

Savoring Arthur is much better than rutting him in the midst of the omega's frenzied heat. Eames peels away the slacks, and kisses along Arthur's thighs and across his knees, down to his calves and his ankles. He throws aside the pants and returns for Arthur's underwear. Entranced, he watches the omega's stomach rise and fall as he breathes deeply, and hooks his thumbs under the fabric to tug it down. Arthur obligingly lifts his hips, and makes a soft noise when his hard cock springs out, resting against his belly.

 

Eames leans down to nuzzle and kiss along the sac beneath Arthur's cock, and the omega gasps, parting his thighs to give him room. Once the underpants clear Arthur's ankles, Eames throws them aside as well before the omega tugs instantly at his sweater.

 

"Want to see you," Arthur requests breathily, and Eames understands. They've only coupled when the omega was in heat and half-blind from lust. Arthur has never been able to savor and fully enjoy their lovemaking, if it can even be called that. They fucked, and Eames was possessed by fear the entire time—fearful of kissing Arthur because it felt so good, fearful that he was falling in love with the young man.

 

Neither of them were able to enjoy their union, but Eames decides that will change now.

 

He kneels on the bed and pulls the sweater over his head, tossing it aside to join Arthur's things. The omega gazes up at him with wide, curious eyes, and Eames grins back at him with affectionate amusement. "You have tattoos," Arthur remarks quietly, reaching up to runs his hands over the alpha's ink.

 

"It's true," Eames confirms, unbuckling his pants and pulling them off his hips along with his boxer shorts. 

 

"What do they mean?" Arthur asks curiously, watching the alpha squirm out of his clothes.

 

Eames joins Arthur again once he's nude, and leans over him, framed by the omega's legs. "Things I don't want to forget," Eames whispers, bending down to kiss Arthur again, and thankfully the omega stops with the questions, and instead parts his lips. 

 

He could happily remain here forever, grinding slowly against the omega, their erections creating delicious friction as they lazily kiss. Finally, the hole in his chest vanishes, replaced with a burn that spreads through his limbs and makes him feel slightly dizzy. When he reaches down to press his finger against Arthur's entrance, his hand comes back wet, and after they separate, he sucks on the tip of his finger to taste the omega. 

 

Arthur tastes sweet, and it reminds Eames of fruit, like something between a pear and a peach. When he looks back to the omega's face, he notices Arthur is watching him, glass-eyed and flushed. Eames runs his hand along Arthur's neck, across his chest, and the omega allows it, and doesn't even comment on how Eames is spreading the moisture against his skin. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and he feels lighter saying the words aloud because he's been thinking them since he first laid eyes on Arthur.

 

He doesn't know why Arthur looks like he might cry again, but the omega suddenly shakes his head. "M'not," he replies simply, and it's not like he's fishing for compliments because he reaches up to pull Eames down for a kiss, effectively ending the debate. 

 

Eames nips at Arthur's lips, grips his cock, and watches the omega's face when he presses the head against his hole. Arthur's breathing hitches, and he looks a little nervous even though they've been here before. But, of course, now it's different. Eames presses forth, and groans when the omega's unrelenting tightness greets him, along with the bite of Arthur's nails when he firmly grips the alpha's shoulders.

 

"Slow…slow…" Arthur begs, pinching his eyes closed and furrowing his brow. Eames obeys and pushes forward in small increments, giving his hips an experimental little thrust, which causes Arthur to cry out and slam his hand against the mattress. Eames leans down to kiss his forehead apologetically, and carefully presses forth until his hips rest against the omega's rear.

 

He focuses on breathing steadily, even as his heart hammers violently in his chest. Now that he's laid his cards on the table, Eames can be honest with himself and admit this is how he's always wanted Arthur: supine and coherent, flushed and lovely. Turning the omega face-down hadn't saved him, forcing space between them hadn't delayed the inevitable. This is his mate.

 

Arthur is _his_.

 

Eames isn't sure, but he might say it aloud—against the crook of Arthur's neck as he desperately ruts the omega, maybe too roughly, but Arthur takes it beautifully. He pulls back his long, slim legs and grips Eames' shoulders and the sides of his face, guiding him down to kiss the alpha's lips between throaty groans. Finally, he's able to claim his mate as he's desired all the while, intimately and without restraint. 

 

Previously, he thought the difference between sex and lovemaking were some pretty words penned by poets, but now he understands. Arthur is not like every other omega he's had over the years, and this is not like those other times. He wants to go slow and explore every inch of him, but he also wants to plunder the omega and claim him entirely, leaving him a shaking, wet mess in his wake. Arthur makes him a little crazy, but he's always heard that's how it is between compatible mates. 

 

The inside of Arthur's body is a tight furnace, and Eames is aware he's making all kinds of embarrassing noises and confessions, but he hopes the omega is too far gone to fully comprehend. That optimism vanishes when Arthur wraps his arms around his neck, kisses his jaw, and quietly moans: "I love you."

 

The words should terrify him, but they don't. Rather, it's like a doctor finally diagnosing a mysterious illness that has plagued and hounded him for years. Love is what robbed him of sleep and sanity. Love is the faceless phantom stealing the taste from his food and purpose from his ordinary life. It's the reason he's no longer satisfied with things as they are, as long as that means a life lived without Arthur.

 

Their skin is hot and slicked with sweat as they writhe against each other, Arthur's hard length pressing into Eames' abdomen any time he leans down to kiss Arthur's mouth again. Suddenly, the omega tenses beneath him and kicks the backs of his thighs with his heels. "Fuck, m'coming," he manages to groan right before he finds his release and his inner muscles clench Eames so tightly that he has to stop thrusting, and the sensation falls just shy of painful.

 

Arthur alternates between panting for breath and moaning softly, and Eames carefully strokes the omega's cheeks and kisses his face. Eventually, Arthur notices he's stopped moving, and he shifts a little against the bed. "Will you knot me this time?" he asks shyly, and an answering lump rises in Eames' throat.

 

He loves Arthur. Arthur is his mate, and yet, knotting will turn the abstract into a concrete reality. Once they're knotted, there's no turning back. Arthur will be his, and he will be Arthur's, forever. Eames has never knotted an omega before, and precisely for this reason.

 

But Eames also knows he's been a stupid, selfish alpha, and he's hurt himself, and worse, Arthur. He's never going to do that again. He will never deprive his mate of anything. 

 

"Yes, my love," he responds simply, which is all that needs to be said. Arthur clings to him in anticipation, breath hitching at the end of every thrust until Eames buries his cock deeply, and shifts them around so he's spooning Arthur in his arms, and his chest is pressed to the omega's back.

 

In theory, he knows what to expect, but of course it's very different when the knot actually begins to grow. Eames doesn't know the exact logistics, but he fakes calmness when Arthur makes a soft sound of distress. "Shh, it's all right," he encourages, and kisses the side of Arthur's throat. Logically, he knows the swelling will stop when Arthur's body has reached the limits of its elasticity. But a small voice inside his head warns it could be too much for the omega—that he might tear, or be irreparably harmed.

 

He runs his fingers over Arthur's chest and his stomach, stroking in comforting circles until, mercifully, the swelling stops. Eames rests his forehead against Arthur's damp curls, groans pouring past his clenched teeth as he comes in waves, claiming Arthur in the most intimate way imaginable. The omega answers, moaning throughout the release until he grows quiet and still.

 

Making Arthur his mate feels natural, like the sun rising in the morning, and Eames doesn't want the physical union to end. 

 

He feels elated, and high from endorphins, which is why he's confused at first when Arthur begins to shake, and Eames realizes he's crying. "What is it?" he asks quickly, frowning down at Arthur's profile. 

 

"I fucked up everything," Arthur whispers hoarsely, and Eames kisses his damp cheek.

 

"What are you on about?" he asks, his voice tinged with amusement. This should be a happy moment, but then again, he's beginning to think they're not destined to do anything by the book.

 

Arthur sniffles pitifully. "I should have let you go," he answers, sounding so sad and broken that Eames' chest constricts painfully.

 

"Why would you say such a thing?" he asks.

 

The omega looks anguished, and then frustrated—maybe with himself. "I cost you your job, and I'm so fucked up. What are we going to do, Eames?"

 

 _Ah_. 

 

Arthur must have already pieced together the fact that a mated alpha cannot work at Chaleur. He supposes that fact is obvious enough, but he'd naively hoped the omega would miss that small detail. As for the rest of it, Eames finds he's at a loss for words, a truly rare phenomenon. He doesn't know what they're going to do, but he knows he won't allow Arthur to work anymore, at least not that that awful place. And he's not going to let Arthur live in squalor. 

 

Eames has no idea where his next paycheck is going to come from, but he's not about the share that information with his mate.

 

"I'll take care of everything," he whispers just behind Arthur's ear in what he hopes is a comforting tone. "I'll take care of you, love."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames' big ideas

The first thing Eames does upon waking is locate a large duffel bag, and then pile Arthur's meager wardrobe inside it. The omega is slow to wake, but when he does, he props himself up on his elbows and squints at Eames in confusion. "What're you doing?" he murmurs, looking around the flat.

 

"Packing," Eames replies, plucking a stack of comic books off the floor and putting them on top of the folded garments, 90 percent of which appear to be t-shirts. "You're coming home with me," he explains after he looks up and sees the befuddlement on Arthur's face.

 

"What?" Arthur mumbles again, swinging his legs off the side of the mattress so he can find his boxers and pull them on. "Wait, Eames," he says, standing and walking over to the alpha. " _Stop_ ," he instructs more firmly this time.

 

Eames sighs, but he sets down the bag, and straightens so he can look Arthur in the eye. He'd spent much of last night awake, planing for the next day, and in Eames' head, the plan is crystal clear. Of course, he's also aware Arthur isn't on the same page, and he'll probably need to explain himself before he steals the omega from his previous life.

 

"You're not happy here," he says, carefully watching Arthur's face for any indication that he's wrong. The omega stares back at him calmly, though the corner of his right eye twitches a bit. "I want you to come live with me."

 

"You didn't even _ask_ me. You have to _ask_ a person stuff like that, Eames," Arthur mutters, shaking his head and looking down at the bag. Eames has only been packing a couple minutes, and he's already managed to pack away all of Arthur's worldly possessions. "I have a say in where I live."

 

Eames furrows his brow.

 

Right. Consent. His stupid alpha brain is sleep-deprived and testosterone-fuelled at the moment, and he'd forgotten to consult with Arthur about how he's like his life to proceed. "Fine," he says, throwing up his hands to gesture around the room. "Then, say you want to live here."

 

Arthur frowns at him. "I never said I want to live here. I just want you to _ask me_ where I want to live."

 

Eames has to focus very hard on not rolling his eyes. Outside his work at Chaleur, he's never had to deal much with omegas. His friends are alphas or betas, and he's starting to wonder if it's always this taxing dealing with omegas when they're not in heat, or if this is just an Arthurian feature. " _Right_ ," he says, but it comes out as a growl. "Where. Do. You. Want. To. Live?" he asks, bite behind every word.

 

The tips of Arthur's ears are red when he begrudgingly responds: "With you," and then bends down to pluck the bag off the floor so he can drop it on the bed and resume packing.

 

Eames blinks and stares dumbly at the back of the omega's head, watching him work. He's really not sure what's happening, or how to proceed, but he figures he should fill in Arthur on the rest of his plans to avoid another spat. "I also think you should quit your job…If that's all right with you, of course," he says, doing a little "your majesty" hand twirl, behind Arthur's back, of course.

 

When the omega looks over his shoulder, Eames quickly drops his hand and straightens up, trying to look respectable. Arthur glares suspiciously at him. "What am I going to do for money?"

 

Eames sighs loudly, frustrated. "I'll bloody take care of you, won't I? Don't you know what mates do?" Why does Arthur have to question every little detail?

 

"So, what? I'll sit at home all day alone? Waiting for you to come home?" Arthur grumbles, zipping the bag and picking up his pillow.

 

"You won't be alone. Matty will be there."

 

"Who?" Arthur asks, brow furrowed as he walks over to Eames, bag and pillow in hand.

 

"You'll see," Eames says, taking the bag from him.

 

***

 

Matty loves Arthur immediately, sniffing his shoes excitedly, slobbering everywhere, and wagging his tail furiously.

 

"Hey fella," Arthur says, smiling and bending down into a crouch so he can scratch behind the pup's ears.

 

Eames watches all of this approvingly, smiling to himself. "He's not used to omegas. Smells nice, huh, mate?" Eames says, grinning cheekily when Arthur shoots him a mock glare.

 

Matty snorts happily when he rubs his wet nose against Arthur's pants leg, and the omega grins down at him when he stands up again. "Friendly guy," he remarks before looking around the place. Eames tries not to feel too smug when he notes the mixture of surprise and awe on Arthur's face. "Jesus, this is really nice," he says, looking at the flatscreen TV and plush leather couch. 

 

When Arthur looks out the large balcony door that leads out onto the balcony, Eames drops his bag onto the couch and casually remarks: "I thought you could also enroll back in university, since the idea of sitting at home with Matty all day seems to horrify you."

 

Arthur's shoulders tense at the words, but he doesn't say anything when he turns around again—not that it matters. Eames already knows he's hiding something because the omega is a terrible liar. "It's too expensive," he murmurs, sitting on the couch and letting Matty, panting and slobbering, crawl onto his lap.

 

"Not for me. I'll front you the tuition," Eames says breezily, even though he already anticipates Arthur will also shoot down that idea too.

 

He's proven right half a second later. 

 

"How? You just lost your job," Arthur replies icily, which Eames is beginning to understand is a defense mechanism.

 

"Let me worry about that," he says evasively. "Take care of Matty," Eames adds, walking towards the front door.

 

"Where are you going?" Arthur calls behind him.

 

"Be back in a few hours," Eames responds before shutting the door behind him.

 

***

 

It's strange being back at Chaleur, but not for the purposes of working. Without wearing his uniform tunic, Eames feels like a stranger looking at the den with a new set of eyes. It somehow seems simultaneously smaller, less impressive, and larger—more alien—than he remembered. 

 

He walks straight to Yusuf's office and knocks on the door. When he hears the familiar lilt of his friend's voice call, "Come in!" Eames slips inside and clicks shut the door behind him.

 

Yusuf is seated behind his desk, spreadsheets splayed out in front of him. He looks surprised when he sees the alpha standing there. "Eames!" he cries, but there's a wary undercurrent in his voice. "What a surprise," he remarks, gazing down at the alpha's hands before looking back to his face. "This isn't a workplace shooting type situation, is it?"

 

Eames smiles slowly. "Nah, mate. Needed a word, though."

 

Yusuf nods, still cautious, but gestures to an empty chair located at the other side of the desk. Eames sits down, crosses his legs ankle to knee, and smiles in what he hopes is a disarming fashion in the beta's direction. 

 

Yusuf quirks a brow. "What is it? Did Arthur shoot you down?"

 

His smile vanishes. "Oi, fuck off. _No_. I have more charm in my little finger than you do in your whole body, you prat."

 

The beta grins, seemingly relieved to find them in familiar (albeit cruel) territory. "Which finger is that? The little mutant crooked one?"

 

Eames frowns and tucks the appendage in question inside his fist. _Stay focused_ , he reminds himself. " _Yusuf_ ," he growls, glowering at the man. "I've a business proposal for you."

 

Leaning back in his chair, Yusuf smiles at him, swivelling the seat back and forth slightly as he sizes up Eames. "Is that right?"

 

"Yes," Eames says, angling forward a bit. "Look, I've been with you since the beginning. I was _the_ first alpha you hired, and I helped build this place from the ground up."

 

Yusuf doesn't respond affirmatively or negatively. He simply watched Eames with a neutral expression that borders on unsettling. 

 

Eames clears his throat and continues: "Right, so…I figure I at least deserve the chance to be a business partner."

 

That last remark shatters Yusuf's resolve and he bursts out laughing. "Pull the other one. How are you a _partner_ , mate? Sleeping with omegas is just a fraction of what keeps this place going. Do you know how to balance books? How about get a loan from a bank? Do you have any idea how many people I've paid off from the city to keep us open?"

 

Eames stays calm, allowing Yusuf to ramble before he replies: "But you can't recruit, can you? Alphas won't listen to a beta pitch the glories of sex work."

 

He manages to successfully stun and silence Yusuf, who glares at him in equal parts annoyance and begrudging respect. Yusuf knows that's true. Eames was always pulled into meetings with newly recruited alphas to sing the praises of Chaleur so that the employees would actually believe Yusuf's claims.

 

"You're thinking too small," Eames continues. "If I'm a partner, I'll recruit exclusively for you. I'll bring in more alphas than you'll know what to do with. You'll have to expand," he says, and grins when Yusuf's eyes practically gleam in response.

 

"How many alphas can you bring in?" the beta asks, and Eames' heart thuds powerfully in response. _This might work_ , he thinks.

 

"How many do you bring in now?" he counters, even though he partly knows the answer. He wants to hear Yusuf say it aloud.

 

Yusuf snorts. "Not many, I'm afraid. Losing you really put a dent in our pocketbook, even with Mal picking up some of your clients."

 

"I'll bring in two this week," Eames boldly declares, completely talking out of his ass, of course, but Yusuf doesn't know that. And even if he knows it, he won't want to believe it because what Eames is promising him sounds like a miraculous panacea.

 

Yusuf smirks, amused, but nods his head slowly. "All right, mate. You do that, and I'll make you partner, and you'll come on to recruit for me."

 

It's official because they shake on it, and everything.

 

***

 

Eames' glorious return to the flat prominently features the wide grin plastered on his face.

 

"Why're you so happy?" Arthur asks suspiciously from the exact same spot on the couch where Eames left him. Except, now Matty is curled up beside him, snoring happily, while Arthur flips through a magazine.

 

"Oh, no reason. Just celebrating my own brilliance," Eames replies, opening the refrigerator to fetch a bottle of beer.

 

He twists off the cap and takes a generous swill. The kitchen and living room are connected in the flat, so Eames leans against the counter, and enjoys an uninstructed view of Arthur. "Looks like I'll be able to pay for your courses after all."

 

Arthur is silence for a moment, aggressively turning the pages of the magazine before he flips it shut. "You have to stop _doing_ that," he mutters.

 

"What?" Eames asks, confused, but also frustrated. He thought he'd found the perfect solution to their woes, but Arthur still seems angry and defensive for some reason. 

 

" _Deciding_ everything for me," Arthur spits, cheeks angrily flushed again in a way that Eames finds upsetting, and a little appealing, if he's being perfectly honest. "I don't want to go back to university, okay?"

 

"But why not?" he asks, brows arched as he stares at the omega, mystified. Arthur had seemed so sad when he talked about having to drop out of school.

 

"Look, I don't want to talk about it!" Arthur cries, loud enough that Matty wakes up and stares in sleepy confusion at them. Eames watches, stunned and silent, as Arthur throws down the magazine on the glass coffee table and storms over to his bag, pulling it off the cushions. "Stop telling me what to do, and stop being so _nosy_ ," Arthur mutters before he pauses and looks down the hallway.

 

It occurs to the alpha why he's hesitating all of a sudden, but he simply remains silent and watches Arthur awkwardly stand there. Taking a pull from the bottle, Eames gazes at him, amused, when the omega is finally forced to look at him again.

 

"Which one is the bedroom?" Arthur grumbles.

 

"Oh, last door on the right, love," Eames answers, smiling beautifully before the omega storms off again and slams the door behind him.

 

***

 

There's no easier way to run into new alphas than to join the lads downtown for a night of heavy drinking. It's an inevitability that at some point on any given night they're going to run into some alphas and have a good ol' fashioned brawl.

 

Drinking, fighting, and causing havoc are what young alphas do, and true, Eames and the lads aren't so young these days, but they can still scrap with the best of them.

 

On this particular night, Eames isn't drinking heavily, and refuses to cave to the pressure from his peers when they tease him about this fact.

 

Tonight is about business.

 

They're at one of their favorite pubs, which is a hotspot for alphas in the area, so Eames decides it's as good a place as any to start scouting for some talent. Chaleur's alphas are generally good-looking for obvious reasons, but physical aesthetics is only one of the characteristics Yusuf values in employees. He also prefers the alphas to be charming, capable of making conversation, and offering comfort to their guests.

 

Eames has seen plenty of good-looking alphas, but they also tend to be too loud and brash, and they're also _wasted_ , which puts approaching them about business out of the question.

 

"What's wrong, Eamesy?" Parker, one of the lads, asks. "You seem distracted," he comments, his tongue having a hard time navigating around the last word, so it comes out as a slur. Parker is already properly sauced. 

 

"Just thinking," Eames says, still casing the room for talent.

 

"Yeeeah, I know what about!" Drew hollers from beside Parker, throwing his arm around Parker's shoulders. "Eamesy has a little omega."

 

"Really?" Parker asks, eyes wide.

 

"Yeah, mate! Can't you smell it on him?" Drew asks, laughing uproariously.

 

"Nah, I got a cold," Parker replies. "Is that true, mate?"

 

Eames sighs. He loves the lads, but he's wanted to keep Arthur a secret. He's afraid the alphas will frighten Arthur, but that's not the full reason. Arthur is this nice, serene spot in his life, and he doesn't want the uproarious noise of his mates to invade upon that territory and sully it. 

 

The lads are his past, when he could tear up London seven days a week and still have energy to work at Chaleur. But these days, three beers guarantee misery the next morning, and he barely has the stamina to bounce back. Eames is ready to move forward, and Arthur represents the key to doing so.

 

He just needs to work out some details, and that includes finding some new blood for Chaleur.

 

"I don't kiss and tell," he says evasively, which does absolutely fuck all because the boys erupt in howls and laughter. 

 

"Well, fuck me! Casanova has found true love!" Drew cries, and the rest of the lads at the bar howl in response.

 

Eames rolls his eyes, and is about to say something really nasty about Drew's mum, when he locks eyes with a tall blond alpha sitting at the other end of the room. He doesn't know how, but Eames instantly knows he's American. Sometimes, he can see the substance of things beneath their surface levels. It's sort of the same way he can always tell which melons at the market are ripe just by looking at them.

 

The blond alpha is seated beside a petite brunette woman, another alpha, who looks his way when she notices her companion is distracted.

 

Eames doesn't even excuse himself when he pushes off the wall and walks a direct path to their table, like he has fishing wire secured to his chest and the blond alpha is reeling him in. Distantly, he hears someone—Parker—call his name, but he's already across the crowded room, and totally focused on the target.

 

"Hello," the blond man responds cooly when Eames is standing in front of them, and he's right: the bloke's American accent rings out like nails on aluminium foil. But to Eames, it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard and he smiles charmingly.

 

"'Ello, mate. Eames is the name. Nice to meet you," he says, playing up his accent a bit because yanks love that, and shaking the man's hand. 

 

"Dominic Cobb," the man replies, brow creased in amusement.

 

"And who is this stunning vision?" Eames asks, taking the woman's small hand, and bending down to kiss it.

 

"Ariadne," the woman, also an American, answers, smirking in a very knowing way in his direction.

 

Ah. Eames instantly knows she's the shrewder of the two, and he'll have to be careful around her.

 

Eames pulls out a chair and sits down at their table. 

 

"I noticed you looking our way," Cobb comments, slowly rotating his pint glass on the table, leaving wet figure eights in its wake.

 

"It's true," Eames says, smiling all the while. 

 

He can't stop looking at the man's jacket and the faded fabric at the elbows. Old suit. The woman is put together better, but she looks tired. They give off the air of being business associates, but this isn't a typical after work drink between colleagues. Everything about their demeanours seems weary and beaten down, like they've travelled a long way, but now they've run out of road. 

 

He must approach cautiously, reminds the little voice in the back of his mind, but how _does_ one broach the subject of sex work? Eames thinks back to how Yusuf brought up the idea to him, and says: "I have a business proposal for you."

 

Ariadne's eyes brighten, and Eames' heart tightens in response. When he glances down, he sees a large messenger bag bulging at her feet. It's too big to contain work files. Maybe it contains her clothes. Maybe it contains all her possessions, and she has no where to go after this final meeting with an associate, who burnt her in the worst way, and is now leaving her stranded in a strange, foreign city.

 

But of course, she's smart, so she quickly veils the expression with a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?" she asks, voice dripping with weary sarcasm.

 

"Have you heard of Chaleur?" Eames asks, approaching on quiet feet.

 

Cobb grins broadly. "Isn't that a sex den?" And when Ariadne looks at him in surprise, he shrugs slowly. "I heard about it on the news once."

 

"It's _the_ sex den," Eames corrects, leaning back in his chair, firmly in control of the conversation. "And it's a great opportunity for alphas to make a ton of cash very quickly, if that's the kind of thing that interests you."

 

Ariadne's laughter sounds like a bark. "Are you shitting me?" she cries, but when Cobb doesn't immediately tell Eames to fuck off, she gapes at them in surprise. "Uh, I am _not_ sleeping with a bunch of omegas who can't get laid in real life. _Jesus_ , dude. I thought you were going to have us sell encyclopaedias or something."

 

Eames smiles easily. He'd come over expecting a fight, so he's not alarmed by Ariadne's reticence because he too had found himself in that position many years ago. "I assure you, we screen all our omega clients, and many of them choose Chaleur because of its controlled, safe environment." He looks pointedly at Ariadne: "It's not always because they can't _get laid_ , as you say, in real life."

 

Cobb nods slowly. "What's it pay?"

 

Ariadne stares at him with eyes the size of small planets. "Cobb!"

 

He shrugs, smiling good-naturedly. "I'm just hearing the man out."

 

"I pulled in fifty thousand pounds last year," Eames answers, inflating his income only a little. 

 

Ariadne stares at him. "You're lying."

 

"Cross my heart," he answers, and then he does, across his jacket pocket. "Look, it's not a bad way to make a living, but if it's not your bag, there's opportunities for promotion. You do some time at Chaleur, then come recruit with me." 

 

Of course, Eames hasn't discussed this structuring model with Yusuf, but he's sure he can sprinkle enough sweetener on the deal to make the beta more compliant. 

 

"Look, man. I'm desperate, but I'm not _that_ desperate," Ariadne says, nearly snorting into her pint glass.

 

"No, of course not," Eames purrs, fishing his card out from his jacket pocket so he can slide it across the table in Cobb's direction. "But just in case, here's my number, and the address of Chaleur. I'll be there tomorrow morning if you're interested."

 

Cobb takes the card and puts it in his pocket, and Eames knows in that moment Chaleur has at least one new worker. As for Ariadne, she might not bite, but it's a good start, nonetheless.

 

"Have a good evening," he says, smiling politely at the pair before he stands up and crosses the room to rejoin the lads.

 

***

 

Eames gets back to the flat late.

 

All the lights are off, including the ones in the bedroom, but he knows as soon as he enters the room that Arthur is still awake. He brushes his teeth, strips down to his boxers, and climbs into bed behind the omega.

 

"You up?" he whispers, pressing his mouth against Arthur's dark locks.

 

Arthur's answer is frosty silence before he finally turns over, and Eames can just make out the frown plastered across his face, now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark. "Where were you? You smell like beer."

 

"Out with the lads," Eames answers, which is the half-truth. He doesn't want to fill Arthur in on his plans in case they fail. The only thing worse than disappointment is false hope.

 

Arthur sighs, his breath warm against Eames' face. "You can't just… _disappear._ You didn't even tell me where you were going."

 

Eames frowns, mulling that over. He left Arthur alone in a strange building, in a foreign part of the city, with no money or a way to escape. Basically, he kidnapped him, and it doesn't make that fact all right just because they bonded.

 

"I'm you're mate. You have to treat me with respect," Arthur says softly.

 

Eames slides his arms around the omega and kisses his cheeks gently. "That's right. My beautiful little mate," Eames coaxes playfully, smiling against Arthur's lips when he feels the omega relax minutely. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again," he adds, moving to Arthur's neck when he kisses and bites love marks into the supple flesh.

 

Arthur groans happily and rolls onto his back, parting his thighs, so Eames can rest between them. But when Eames moves to hook his thumbs under the waistband of the omega's boxers and tug them lower, Arthur's hand flies down and grips his wrist, stopping him.

 

Eames blinks and looks at the omega's face in confusion. He can already smell Arthur is wet, so he doesn't know why he stopped him. 

 

Arthur eyes him nervously. "I know…this stuff is normal for you, but…I'm still learning," he says quietly, and even though it's dark, Eames can see his face flushing in embarrassment. "If I do something wrong, you can tell me. I know I'm not very good."

 

And Eames can be a cold bastard, but those words pull apart something in his chest. "Oh, darling," he sighs, kissing Arthur's lovely Cupid's bow mouth. "You're perfect…Everything is perfect."

 

Which is almost the whole truth. Everything isn't perfect _yet_ , but when it comes to Arthur, Eames has nothing to complain about.

 

***

 

The next morning, he buys a cup of tea and newspaper at the corner shop, and rides the tube to his old stop.

 

When he walks up to Chaleur's side entrance, Cobb is standing by the door.

 

So is Ariadne.

 

"Well," Eames declares, securing both their attention. "Let's get started."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's revenge via Eames

Ariadne forgets to be morally outraged at the idea of sex work around the time of her first pay day. Then, she openly gapes at her pay slip and shows it to Yusuf to make sure there hasn't been some kind of mistake. 

 

He laughs and gently pats her on the arm.

 

Cobb and Ariadne are doing well at Chaleur—better than average, actually. Between the two of them, they've already filled the void left behind by Eames, plus four new customers. Yusuf is positively giddy at the influx of cash, and eagerly dubs Eames "Recruiting Manager," which is a fancy term for pimp.

 

And yes, maybe Cobb does have a slight problem with professionalism when he stares doe-eyed at Mal, but Eames can't really blame him. If he preferred the fairer sex, he'd probably have wasted years doing the same thing.

 

As for Mal, she thinks Cobb is cute in the same way a feral cat feels an unsuspecting mouse is cute.

 

Eames is just glad that he no longer has to spend long days at Chaleur to watch that inevitable fiery train wreck. He has no doubt that Mal will eventually lure Cobb into her bed, and they'll have some tragically passionate love affair—the kind that can only ever end in tears and agony. He hopes to be far away in a pub somewhere, recruiting fresh-faced alphas, when it all goes down.

 

One of the perks of being a Recruiting Manager is that he essentially gets to make his own schedule, so no one is around to tell him it's not work appropriate to swing by his flat and check on Arthur in the middle of the day.

 

When he breezes through the front door, Eames discovers the omega sitting rigidly at the small kitchen table, a napkin torn to pieces in front of him. He stares at the scraps of paper for a moment, and if that isn't a nervous tell, Eames doesn't know what is. "Hello, darling," he says pleasantly, ignoring the fact that Arthur's very physical presence screams _anxiousness_ : from his clenched shoulders, to the stern setting of his spine, extending right up to the severe line of his pretty mouth.

 

Eames goes to fetch a beer from the fridge because, again, Recruiting Manager. 

 

He pops off the cap on the edge of the sink and leans against the counter when he takes a long pull from the bottle. Eames remains silent deliberately, hoping to smoke out Arthur from the deep recesses of his stubbornness.

 

Arthur finally releases the poor napkin, sighs loudly, and clenches his fists on his lap instead. "I have something to tell you."

 

Eames nods, still quiet, because he's at least gathered that much simply from observing Arthur's ridiculously telling body language. He instantly starts flipping through the rolodex in his mind to prepare himself: Arthur is a junky, Arthur is younger than he's been claiming, Arthur owes money to unsavoury figures.

 

"I lied…" Arthur begins, swallowing with some difficulty, his Adam's apple bobbing against the pale flesh of his throat. 

 

Watching him carefully, Eames takes another slow swig from the bottle and lets the ale linger and fizzle on his tongue before he swallows it. He continues waiting. _Arthur is a wanted felon. Arthur has killed people. Arthur is going to murder him and steal all his possessions._

 

Arthur sighs again in exasperation. "Shit, I don't even know where to start," he mumbles, reaching for the tortured napkin again.

 

"At the beginning, love," Eames offers helpfully, shrugging a bit when the omega looks at him. "Traditionally, I've found that's the best place to start."

 

The omega nods slightly, balls up the napkin, and sets it aside. "Okay…Well, my parents aren't dead," he says quickly, and then peeks up at Eames.

 

His brows arch upward. "Interesting," he says slowly, taking another swig. He has a feeling he's going to need it. He imagines Arthur's furious parents hunting him down and charging him with kidnapping and taking advantage of an emotionally distressed omega.

 

Arthur sighs. "I'm really sorry. Are you mad?"

 

Eames shakes his head slowly, and sets aside the bottle on the counter, so he can fold his arms across his chest. He's not mad. He's just thinking. "Did you run away from home?" he asks, mentally doing the maths for how long he'll serve in jail if Arthur's parents accuse him of stealing away their precious baby boy. Eames has priors, and has been unfairly labeled a degenerate on more than one occasion by austere justices. He could go away for a very long time.

 

"No!" Arthur cries quickly, but then adds: "Yes. I mean…It's complicated."

 

The alphas stares at him imploringly to continue.

 

Arthur takes a deep breath, straightens up a little further somehow (really, the young man has remarkable posture,) and says: "I grew up poor. Like, really poor." Arthur frowns and glances around Eames' fancy flat as if to emphasize his point. He thinks back to how in awe the omega has seemed at the presence of his large television, and how accustomed he was to squalor and meager possessions. "And my parents thought they could leverage my…status into something good for our family."

 

Eames nods. It's not unheard of for parents of omegas to dangle their child's reproductive status in front of alpha suitors like a carrot from a stick. It's not particularly ethical, but then again, Eames is in no position to cast stones. 

 

"Anyway, I wasn't very good at it," Arthur says, smiling faintly—self-deprecatingly. "The courting thing. I think I saw every wealthy alpha within a fifty mile radius, and…nothing. No calls for a second date," Arthur pauses and looks at Eames. "My anxiety makes it hard for me to relax, you know? I have trouble talking to people."

 

"But not me," Eames interrupts, smiling in an encouraging way—with a bit of cheek thrown in—just to lighten the mood.

 

It works because Arthur smiles faintly. "Not you," he admits quietly. He pauses, and Eames knows he's steeling himself to continue. "So I ran out of options, basically, and my dad said there was only one alpha left, willing to have me, and he was very rich, and I had to make it work," Arthur says, his voice wavering a little, and his gaze drops to his hands so he can finish without looking at Eames. "He was so old, Eames. Like.. _sixty_ , and he was rude to me, and my parents didn't even care."

 

Eames watches silently, though he inwardly burns with outrage on Arthur's behalf. He cannot imagine ever being willing to do something like that, even if the cupboards were bare and he was jobless and penniless. Apparently, Arthur feels the same because his ears have turned an angry shade of red at their tips. "I hated him, and they said it didn't matter because no other alphas wanted me, so I ran away. I had a friend who helped get me on a plane, but he said I'd be on my own once I got to London," Arthur says, shrugging weakly.

 

Smirking, the omega looks up at Eames. "I didn't know what I wanted to do, but I always liked architecture. Well…buildings, anyway. There was a church by my house in Virginia, and I'd run there to get away from my parents, and I'd lay on the pews for hours, looking at the stained glass windows and the arches," he says, sighing a little at the happy memory—probably one of the only ones Arthur has from his childhood.

 

"It was stupid and naive. I got here, and I didn't have money, or valid IDs, and I'm an illegal immigrant, and I had to take the one job I could find where they didn't want proof of citizenship," Arthur says, a little anger bleeding through his tone, and Eames is glad to hear it. Arthur _should_ be angry at the rotten hand he was dealt—angry at his parents, and angry at the world that won't allow him a fresh start. "I just wanted—I _needed_ to get as far away from them as possible, Eames."

 

Eames uncrosses his arms and holds them open. "Come here," he commands gently.

 

Arthur looks so guilty and timid approaching that Eames has to smile and pull him close the second he's within arm's reach. "You're not mad?" the omega whispers against his neck and Eames kisses his soft locks and the side of his face.

 

"Not at you. Not ever," Eames responds, his arms tightly wound around Arthur's narrow frame.

 

They hold each other in the kitchen for a long time, until Matty wanders in, sniffs at their feet, and tries to physically wedge himself between their legs—probably angling for belly rubs or an early dinner. When Eames looks down, Matty grunts in frustration and stares up at him.

 

"Did you quit your job yet?" Eames asks Arthur, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 

Arthur furrows his brow, unshed tears gleaming in his dark eyes. "Uh…no. Not yet. Why?"

 

"Come on," Eames says, a dangerous little smirk hanging on his lips.

 

***

 

Eames deliberately times their journey so they arrive at _Senior Clucky's_ around the same time he visited the restaurant the first time. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder as they approach the front door, and Eames can feel Arthur growing more tense during each passing second.

 

When he gazes through the big glass window and sees the same pack of teenagers, his tormenters, seated at their usual table, Arthur stops in his tracks. "Eames, I can't do this," he says quietly, his gaze so pleading when he looks at the alpha that Eames very nearly caves. 

 

But this is precisely why they're here at this specific time. Eames wants to see the same manager, who allowed Arthur to be abused under his supervision for so long, and teach those little hooligans a proper lesson.

 

"Come along, darling," Eames insists, holding open the door, so Arthur really doesn't have a choice. He sighs, but squares his shoulder, and Eames feels proud when the omega walks inside with his head held high.

 

When they're standing at the front counter, Eames asks to see the manager, while Arthur awkwardly stands off to the side. The omega is doing an absolutely rubbish job at appearing casual, and he keeps casting furtive glances over to the table of teenagers. The youth probably wouldn't have even recognized Arthur outside of work, sans uniform, but he's staring so much that it eventually captures the attention of one of the alphas, who elbows his friend sitting beside him, and soon the whole table is staring at them.

 

"Eames, we should _go_ ," Arthur hisses, dark eyes huge against his pale skin.

 

The alpha casts an unworried look over his shoulder to the group of teenagers, and then returns his attention to the manager, who has just emerged from the back room. "Ah, hello," Eames says, smiling politely.

 

"Did you ask to see the manager?" the man asks by way of greeting. He's tall—taller than Eames, but older, balding, and sporting a paunch. Regardless, he's an alpha, and as such, his default setting is suspicious hostility. "Sir, could you step to the side a bit? There's a queue behind you."

 

Eames again looks over his shoulder to the five individuals lined up behind him. They look aggravated and hungry, and Eames wants to tell them: _Oh, things are about to get so much worse._

 

"Nah, this won't take long," Eames declares cheerily, and then surges forward to grip the manager by his collar and rip him across the counter. The manager lets out a strangled yelp, and the queue immediately scatters. 

 

"What the fuck!" the manager cries as he flops to the floor, just before Eames slams his boot down into his solar plexus. The man howls in pain, but the sound is weaker because Eames' weight is forcing the air out of his lungs.

 

"Eames, stop!" Arthur cries somewhere behind him.

 

The alpha crouches down a bit and stares at the man's face. Then he squints down at his chest to read his name tag. "Right, _Charles_. Is it this store's policy to allow its employees to be tormented by customers?"

 

"W-What?" the man sputters, eyes wild and horrified. Eames can feel him gasping for breath underneath his boot.

 

" _Those kids,_ " Eames spits, pointing to the table of teenagers, who have grown conspicuously silent. Some of the teens are standing, watching him warily, while the alpha men remain seated, apparently paralyzed by fear. "They've been very naughty," Eames explains, grinning in his unhinged way as he stares at Charles' face. 

 

"I didn't…I didn't know. No one told me," Charles rambles.

 

Eames looks at Arthur. "Did you tell him?"

 

Arthur is trembling by the counter, but there's also an excited little gleam in his eyes—like he's watching some beautiful dream unfold before him, and he doesn't quite believe it's really happening. Eames can tell he's weighing the moral consequences of being truthful against the effects of his honesty, but finally he answers: "Yes. Many times."

 

Charles tilts back his head and squints at the omega. "Arthur?" he asks, confused.

 

Eames boot comes down a second time, and Charles cries out. The alpha scans the rest of the restaurant quickly to make sure no one is filming him, or using their phone to call the authorities. He can't see the back of the store, though, and an employee might be calling the police as they speak. 

 

He has to move quickly.

 

The alpha crouches down and grabs Charles by the front of his shirt, shaking him once so the back of his head cracks against the floor. "Listen to me," he growls. "Arthur is very special to me, and when you wronged him, you wronged me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

 

Charles whimpers and nods, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Eames shakes him again before he faints. 

 

"I'll be watching you, Charles," Eames says vaguely, and releases the man.

 

When he stands up, the whole restaurant is still eyeing him warily, and Eames wonders if they think he's armed. That would explain why they're not running for the exits, anyway. They probably think he's robbing the place. Eames does sport _that look_ , after all.

 

But instead of emptying the tills, he points at the group of teenagers as he walks over to them. One of the girls has her cell phone out, probably to photograph him, or record video, but he plucks the small, pink device from her hands, drops it to the floor, and crushes it beneath his heel. "None of that," he chastises softly, and she sits down quickly.

 

Eames has an excellent memory for faces, and he happens to vividly remember the visages of Arthur's main tormenters—one of the taller alphas, and his buddy sitting beside him. 

 

It's them he's interested in.

 

"You," he says, pointing at the tall teenager. "What's your name?"

 

"Dwayne," the youth replies, but it comes out as a rasp.

 

"Dwayne," Eames replies, letting the name roll around his mouth, "And?" he asks, pointing to his mate.

 

"Matt," the young man replies, already looking like he's on the verge of begging for forgiveness.

 

Eames smiles. "That's the name of my dog," he says brightly, but the young men stare back at him, terrified. "Why'd you bother my friend?"

 

"We didn't know he was your mate," Dwayne says quickly.

 

"Why's it matter he's my mate? He's a human being. It's wrong to disrespect human beings, innit?" 

 

Matt nods enthusiastically, and Dwayne looks like he's forgotten how to swallow.

 

Eames watches them for a few more seconds, and then thunders: "Say something!"

 

Both young men jump in their chairs, and Dwayne manages to squeak: "Yes! I'm sorry, bruv. I'm sorry. I didn't know he's your mate, and I shouldna dun tha in the first place. Christ, I'm sorry, Arthur. That's his name, right?" he asks, eyes wild as he tries to see past Eames' wide frame. "Arthur, I'm sorry!"

 

"You don't talk to him," Eames barks, and his face must be exuding some crazy volatile energy because the teens look petrified. "You keep his name out of your unworthy mouth," he spits, leaning against the table so he can get right in Dwayne's face. "I'll be watching you too, mate. When you walk home at night, and you feel some eyes on you, that's me. Don't forget."

 

He suddenly turns from the table, and nods to the door, and without further command, Arthur races for the exit. "Oh," Eames calls over his shoulder, "By the way, Arthur quits."

 

And just like that, they're off, racing down the sidewalk, laughing until they're breathless and they have to duck into an alleyway.

 

"Holy shit!" Arthur gasps, bent at the waist, hands braces on his knees as he gasps for air. "Holy shit, that was awesome, man. Oh my God. I thought Charles was going to piss himself. And those guys! Oh my God, they were so freaked out!"

 

Eames grins broadly. "They were, weren't they?"

 

"But Eames, they saw your face," Arthur says, frowning a bit. "There are cameras in that place. Aren't you—"

 

"Nah," Eames dismisses, waving his hand through the air. "I didn't steal anything. If they even investigate, I don't technically exist anyway," he says, peeking out to make sure there aren't any cop cars searching for them.

 

Nothing. Not even sirens.

 

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks, eyeing him curiously. "That you don't technically exist?"

 

Eames grins when he crowds the omega and pushes him gently against a brick wall. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that," he murmurs, but stops Arthur from asking any follow-up questions when he leans down to kiss him.

 

***

 

When they're sure no one is following them, and the cops aren't looking for anyone matching their descriptions, they return to the flat.

 

Arthur sits at the kitchen table, while Eames fetches his special file, and empties the contents of it in front of Arthur.

 

The omega furrows his brow as he slowly leafs through the contents: five passports, multiple school certificates, including a PhD in psychology. "I don't understand," he comments softly, flipping open Eames' German passport to look at the photo. 

 

"I made them," Eames says, gloating only a little bit. "I can forge almost anything, darling. It's something of a side project for me, but I'm bloody good."

 

Arthur nods thoughtfully as he holds up the PhD certificate, waving the paper to check its weight, and squinting at the font. "This _is_ really good," he admits. "Why didn't you get a different job if you can do this?"

 

Eames pulls a face. "Why slave away in an office? Besides...I like what I do," he answers, shrugging.

 

"Wow, this looks so  _real_ ," Arthur says again, squinting at his Brazilian passport.

 

The alpha grins, satisfied that his mate recognizes his forging prowess. "I can make you anything you like: a permanent citizen, so you can go to school, or if you want to skip all that, I can just made you a university certificate."

 

Arthur smirks, shaking his head. "I want to go to school so I know what I'm doing, Eames."

 

Eames offers an answering grin. "Right, well, just a permanent citizen, then. And I'll pay for your classes."

 

The omega is quiet for a long time, and he's beginning to think maybe he's crossed some invisible line again, but when Arthur looks up, he isn't angry. In fact, he looks as though he's seconds from crying. "That's…really nice, but I can't accept money," he whispers, lips twitching into a faint smile.

 

"Why not?" Eames asks, frustrated—not at Arthur, but at the circumstances that led him to believe he doesn't _deserve_ everything his heart desires.

 

"It's too much," Arthur says, shaking his bowed head, and Eames sees some of the tears drop from his eyes to wet the front of his grey t-shirt.

 

Eames crosses the room to kneel in front of him, ignoring the pain in his knees as he rests agains that cold, hard linoleum. "Arthur…" he says softly, tilting up the omega's chin. Arthur's face is streaked with tears, his gaze a mixture of fear and disbelief. "It's not too much. Let me do this for you, love," Eames begs, laying his hands atop Arthur's, squeezing his fingers.

 

Arthur sniffs and his heart swells in response. He never thought it would be possible to love another person as much as he loves his mate. He wants to find all the people who have ever wronged him, and make them sorry, but Eames also knows the best thing he can do for Arthur is move their lives forward, and stop looking back.

 

Arthur is quiet as he looks at their hands, but eventually he looks up and smiles slightly. "Okay," he replies cautiously, as if fearing Eames might revoke the offer.

 

Leaning down, Arthur throws his arms around Eames and holds him tightly as they hug, and the alpha wraps his arms around Arthur's quaking frame.

 

He lets Arthur cry—in relief, in happiness, and in anticipation of everything that is to come.  

**Author's Note:**

> follow me: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/


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